


Overexposure

by oREDACTEDo



Series: DBD Chapter: THE TIES THAT BIND (Fanmade) [1]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Crime Scene Investigation, F/M, Female Protagonist, Fight Scenes, Forensic Photography, Forensics, Identity Reveal, Killing, Life Before The Entity, Life During The Entity, Lore Heavy (mostly), Love Letters, Manipulation, Mercy - Freeform, Murder, Mystery Feels, Obsession, One-Sided Attraction, Psychotic Behavior, Revolution, Slow Burn, Stalking, Teamwork, Unhealthy Obsession, Unrequited Love, strong female character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 123,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21661759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oREDACTEDo/pseuds/oREDACTEDo
Summary: At one moment, Morgan was being chased by a masked killer, but then she took a picture just before it would all end. One bright, blinding photo to stall the Ghost Face, and perhaps she'd get a few seconds to escape. But when her senses came, she realized she was somewhere else. Alongside other unfortunate people, Morgan found herself as a sheep for slaughter in a never ending nightmare of life and death hosted by a strange, unforeseen being in the endless night.The usually stoic and apathetic Morgan will rekindle the hope these people once had. But the Ghost Face is there too. He followed her, and he's hellbent on her and her alone. What makes matters worse, he's hinted on that she knows his identity.As Morgan strives for escape, she must think back to her old life and discover who this Ghost Face bastard really is. Until then, the Ghost Face will never cease. He wants her, and he'll stop at nothing to reunite himself with her just One. More. Time. For to him, “fate” has united them together for all eternity.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Original Character(s), Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Original Female Character(s)
Series: DBD Chapter: THE TIES THAT BIND (Fanmade) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561636
Comments: 225
Kudos: 131





	1. Into the Realm

**Author's Note:**

> Odd Chapters: Entity's Realm
> 
> Even Chapters: Pre-Entity Realm

Chapter 1: Into the Realm

In the midst of the cool air—layered with the stench of old blood and burning logs—Morgan found herself lost and disturbingly confounded by a sudden thick fog that surrounded her. A masked man had given her chase, driving her deeper down the piney, muggy rural lands of Roseville, Florida, where the air was hot and thick, and the mosquitoes pricked at her flesh even whilst she was running. Further down into the prickly palms and sticky ground, where the mud caked and sucked at the soles of her shoes and slowed her down tremendously, she darted down a steep hill, looking behind her with haste to see the masked maniac following closely behind. She’d been turned around too many times to remember where she was. Morgan was pulled from sleep only moments ago from the sound of her pager buzzing on her nightstand, the simple words ‘ _Wake up_ ’ flashing on the screen.

At first, she chose to ignore it, figuring it was a mistake. Those happened sometimes, especially since she was in the crime scene investigation’s system. But yet again she is awoken to her pager signaling off loudly, her hazy mind snapping back at the thought that perhaps it was a serious job she had to bust her ass to, ASAP.

_‘Backyard’_

Appalled, especially given what had been happening around town _recently,_ Morgan fetched her pistol and took a peek outside the window. And there it was.

The white, ghostly face, far back from her porch lights so that its body was well hidden in the darkness. Morgan was petrified, her instincts the shield her figure with her curtains halting when she saw it raise up its hand to wave, pleasantly, a hooked knife glistening cleanly in its hands. Then it was gone, having disappeared somewhere in the backyard of her farm.

The lights were out next just after she’d tested the phonelines to find them dead. All Morgan had was her two-way pager, which she desperately sent a message to her friend and employer, Joseph Fields.

_‘Ghost Face, my home, send help. Please hurry -Morgan’_

But then they were inside, and as Morgan fired three shots into the pitch darkness, her ears ringing, she saw them double over for a moment before lunging forward and tearing a hole into her sleeve. She screamed and hollered for help, her voice echoing across the swampy lands and merging with the late-night croaks of the alligators hidden deep within the marshes. She’d already fled out of her property line, having jumped the fence and charged straight into the darkness, where the wildlife flourished, and no neighbors resided.

“Help! Somebody help me, he’s chasing me! It’s Ghost Face, it’s Ghost Face!”

No homes were moments away, no windows lighting up at the sudden commotion. Just the stars above—one of the many reasons why she’d moved out here in the first place—and the occasional glow bugs that fluttered about in the distance. And hearing the proclamation of his name had him gleefully laughing manically into the open air, relishing the chase and the fun of his next victim.

 ** _“KEEP RUNNING!”_** he cried **_“Fun, fun, fun, FUN, FUN!”_**

The insanity from his was permeating the air. It was getting hard to breath, and as she felt herself slowing down, his body only drove forward. Closing in—he was closing in now. Having grown tired, with lungs burning like a wild fire and her heart beating far too fast for her to think properly, she turned to face the wild figure and did the last thing she could think of that would, at the very least, expose whoever it was that was about to kill her.

She took a picture of him as he raced forward with the tremendous speed one would only ever see in a killer with absolute bloodlust. A bright, pearly white flash that more than likely blinded the both of them, had earned her a frustrated grunt. As the whiteness subsided and the dots in the corners of her vision faded off, Morgan expected to feel the hot tear of a blade rupturing some supple place of her body, but all was not as it seemed. He was gone, whoever he was, and all she heard was the deep, woodsy creek one would not find often in most of Florida. The hot, moist air had been exchanged with a much more cool, frigid, cruel breeze that crawled up her sweaty back. Morgan, still exasperated from her previous endeavors, gripped tightly her camera against her chest and whimpered out into the dark, seemingly foreign wilderness, her head turning as she spun a complete circle with confusion plaguing her face.

This wasn’t her backyard, this wasn’t Roseville, and this wasn’t Florida.

“What is this?” she stuttered, “Where… where am… ?”

Another breezy chill. Morgan, grateful to have been wearing her knitted sweater, hugged the soft grey fabric against her shivering body and began to walk about. Far above was a starless sky with a darkness that permeated far down deep, deep into the soil. Barely could she make out the trees around her, half dead and drooping down like petrified bark towards the ground. In the distance she swore she heard wild hogs call out into the night air, startling her enough to make her leap. Against, she assessed around her, searching desperately for that white, white mask. Bright and pale, like the face of a screaming specter, perhaps lurking somewhere deep within the thickets and hidden just out of sight.

Watching.

Morgan was an alert woman who was keen to details, and upon assessing around her swiftly and finding nothing, she continued forth but didn’t allow herself even the slightest amount of ease.

“Where’s my house,” she mumbled, stumbling across the woods in an invisible, nonexistent path, stumbling forward eagerly towards where she hoped there’d be signs of her yard and undoubtedly the killer waiting. Once there, she’d hide for a while and wait to see, and then when she’d find the courage to rush for her car, she’d check the back first and make sure he wasn’t hiding in her passenger seats. None of this was right though. Morgan distinctly remembered how outside felt like the moment she took great stride for her escape. She remembered feeling the putrid heat as she turned to point her gun straight behind her, firing shots that landed dangerously close to the killer. He’d strafed, leaping side to side, ran in a zigzag to mess with her aim. All she saw was the floating face, and on the eight bullet she had heard the sound of him sneering and what looked like him holding his shoulder. It was so hot and humid, thick smelly air making her body soaking wet like she’d fallen into one of the many canals, her grip on her gun slippery when she whipped him atop the head as the knife slashed across her slender back.

No, this wasn’t home at all. This was someplace else. It was too terribly cold, too different. The trees, the leaves, the sounds. Yet as Morgan walked on for what felt like ten minutes and found no sign of the woods clearing or the buzzing lights of streetlamps in an otherwise vacant street, she stopped dead in her tracks and began to wonder to herself just where exactly she was. Frightfully so, for the last person she saw was the killer at large, and after working on so many cases, Morgan understood the nature of a psychopath better than an average bloke. Sometimes they’d be eager, but most of the time they were patient. Painfully, painfully patient.

She knew her chaser, and he was by far the most patient of them all.

The cold was getting to her now, making her limbs pop with ache. A chill ran up her spine, the opaque, sudden fog freezing her to the bone. She wished she weren’t in shorts, but she’d rushed out of home in a summer Florida night in ’93, which most never expected it to turn foggy and near below temperatures so suddenly. It just wasn’t possible.

Fogs this thick weren’t possible in her town, either. They were too close to the beach, though it was thirty minutes off. A twig snaps, panging her mind with fear, and in a panic, she raced across the way without even a second thought or a look behind her. Morgan coughed, tearing through bushes and careful not to ram into a tree. Legs beat with pulsing aches, her muddy shoes gathering up dead leaves, and no matter how she tried to mute her falling steps all attempts were futile. Something was probably still close on her tail, maybe close enough to cut her. Overwhelmed by the darkness, she snapped a few shots to help guide her way, the sudden flash of light encouraging her to move faster, faster.

Suddenly she came to a clearing, her strong legs stopping her dead in her tracks with graceful ease. The ground scratched beneath her skidding form, her lungs burning with cold, cold air at the sight of people sitting silently around a campfire. Her sudden invasion greatly frightened them, enough so that she herself was confused by their wide-eyed gawking and mortified expressions, but again she looked behind her. Back into the forest.

No, she had spooked herself, she wasn’t being followed, was she?

“Shit, it’s someone new,” a trembling man said, her attention returning to the group. Some stood, while others continued to look into the fire with solemn, lost glances, like they’d been through too much.

“Wait this isn’t right, new people usually show up in a trial,” he continued, his glasses crooked and tie shifted to the side.

“Quit callin’ it that, Dwight. What’s it matter anyway, people go wandering all the time. Makes sense someone can show up from the forest out of the blue. You suggesting we can’t trust her?” a young woman in pigtails interjected.

“Look, all I’m saying is that we can’t trust anything new!”

Morgan was stunned, confused, her camera tightly in her sweaty grip as she swayed side to side, a light bounce in her feet ready for her to run if so need be. “Please, we all have to leave,” she breathed, her voice shrilling at how cold and dry it was outside. “It’s the freak in the newspaper, the killer!”

“Nothin’ we ain’t used to yet,” said a man with a thick, guttural accent. English, Morgan noticed, not that the detail mattered much at the dire moment. Her heart was racing, the thought of that awful man showing up again scaring her half to death.

“What?” she said, still gasping for air, still stunned by all that was happening, and the man only scoffed and shook his head.

“Shit, the lady doesn’ even bloody know yet.”

Morgan slowed her breathing down and stopped dead in her tracks, “I… I know what I’m talking about, I know what I saw. Don’t you all watch the news? It’s the Ghost Face, dammit, he’s here and we need to go before one of us is the **next** fucking headline!”

A hush came from one of the strange campers, their eyes pleading silence. An African American woman, with soft lovely features and cracked glasses over her eyes, placed a hand over Morgan’s sweat slicked palm and attempted to ease her towards the fire. “We believe you, but you’re safe here by the fire.”

Morgan’s mouth was agape, her eyes wide like saucers as she stared incredulously at these people. Did they not care for their safety? Were they out to perhaps stop him, or maybe they were part of the press? They certainly didn’t look like it, and she didn’t recognize any of them. She knew most of the main letter hounds that the newspaper would send barking to the crime scenes. Morgan’s hands shook violently, her grip on her camera never once yielding as she stood her ground for a moment to stare at the lot with distrusting eyes.

“What is this? Where am I?” she stammered.

“Darlin’, sit down, there’s somethin’ you need to hear,” an old, war veteran looking man was sitting with his back turned to her, his hand patting against the dirt welcomingly with his voice a long, dreary sigh. Morgan, bewildered, took a careful look around them as she slowly approached the small, strange group. Where were their cars, their tents? It was nothing but a lone, raging fire and some handful of people with nothing but the clothes on their backs and some strange little mementos left about. Now within a closer proximity to them, she could make out their dirtied skins and tired eyes, nails torn and packed with gunk and hair disheveled. People utterly different from one another, whom otherwise would never probably associate together if it weren’t for some common cause. Reluctantly, but with her alertness still on high, she sat alongside the old man and they all began to speak with her, some firm and direct, others more nurturing and patient, and some, they didn’t even speak at all. But they listened, with terror in their eyes and a hopelessness hanging low in the air which they all shared together.

Of a truth, something fueled by nightmares, that Morgan wouldn’t quite accept until her first terrorizing experience.


	2. Morgan Yoon: Forensic Photographer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, Morgan remembered her last few cases being the most brutal. It was the start of a string of murders from a serial killer who had yet been named.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Odd Chapters: Entity
> 
> Even Chapters: Pre-Entity, Flashbacks

Chapter 2: Morgan Yoon, Forensic Photographer

Work was consistent, but so was it entirely unpredictable.

In order to make money, people had to die, and that was the nature of some professions. There was no way of telling how she got into such a field. Only it came about one day in a natural discussion, where she contemplated the possibility of becoming a forensic photographer, and one day after looking over the possible degrees the local university provided, she jumped right into forensic studies and, well, it just…

…happened.

Three in the morning, her pager goes off. Morgan took a gander at the message. It was from Detective Fields.

_‘281 6 th St, Northumberland Ave’_

Morgan didn’t even bother finishing her coffee. She got her badge, strapped her gun, and fetched her camera. In twenty minutes she was there, parking off the side of the street, unkindly blocking the sidewalk from the passerby who were coming around the corner, eyes lit up with morbid curiosity. Wondering why so many cop cars were there, and an ambulance, and, oh, look at all that yellow tape too! Morgan approached the property, the handful of police keeping the place on lock down already raising the caution tape for her to slide under, and Morgan sensed the blinding flashes of camera lights burning her corneas.

“Morgan,” Joseph Fields spoke. He sported a grey suit, nothing too fancy of course, with all the stress lines already forming along his forehead.

“Detective,” she greeted back, her voice placid and rather dull as it usually was when she worked. “What do we have here?” she asked, and upon entering the house she smelt the strong, pungent scent of blood and iron filling the hot waste of a home. Morgan, stunned by the stench, took a hand and placed it over her nose. Tossed and turned, furniture shifted out of dusty places and broken shards of porcelain and glass buried deep within the carpets, the one lovely residence had become a massacre house.

Joseph nodded apologetically, a grim look on his face. “It’s a bad one.”

She tried not to gag when they entered the living room. A body of an older woman was sprawled on the floor, her clothing shredded but covering her corpse, and at the very least she was decent. Many stab wounds littered her frail body. Morgan counted eight. As her senses began to adjust, and the scent of death slowly dulled into just a lingering unpleasant aroma, Morgan lowered her hand and sighed deeply at the disturbing, sad sight. “Do you think it’s the same guy?”

“We know that whoever did this was the one that gutted John Alan and Lewis Lebberman. Pretty sure the knife was the same. Tod will run some tests to clarify. The only thing we can go by right now is hunches, and that’s not good enough,” he explained.

“The blood spray on the walls suggest violent, strong stabbing motions. Intentional. Some stuff is broken around, like he chased her throughout the house. Her ankle is swollen too. She probably twisted it and fell before she could reach the front door,” the coroner, Tod Mulligan, explained as he knelt on the floor besides the victim, his gloved hands careful to not interrupt too much of anything before proper photos were taken of the scene.

“There were no signs of a break in. The guy knew how to get in and when,” the detective said.

Morgan hummed, already unzipping her bag to retrieve her camera. “All signs of a premediated murder, right?” The detective, with his brows low and teeth bearing down hard on his bottom lip, nodded bitterly before glancing around the room. Quickly, Morgan gets to work, photographing the various parts of the room. She collected all the evidence, including the victim, in various angles for the court. In roughly forty minutes, she was done. The coroner began to handle the victim as she assessed the photos.

“Think you can get them to me by this afternoon?” Joseph asked, looking over Morgan’s shoulder as she scrolled through her gruesome photography. Without a word she nodded, earning a pat on the small of her back from the older man. “I can always count on you, girly.”

“Twenty-three,” Tod sighed, slowly standing with a low, painful groan. With the crackle of his aching back, he rubbed the sweat away from his salt and pepper beard with his clean forearm. “Twenty-three stab wounds, and that’s what I can see from here. There’s probably more where that came from, too. I’ll be able to check when I get the body in later.”

Joseph cursed under his breath, turning his attention to speak with a couple other officers. Orders and commands were given, but all fell on deaf ears as Morgan stared at the face of the old woman. Long, stretched lips could only suggest that it was a slow, painful, awful death. Inside, she felt her stomach gurgling. She was hungry, but had lost her appetite, and before she could get too sentimental, she turned her head and stared out the open front door, her camera in her hands becoming slick with her finger sweat. Outside, she saw the horde of people. Onlookers mixed with the crabby press, live cameras rolling to the news networks with interviewers and reporters speaking fervently within frame. Cameras flashed, newspaper press shining their bright, bright lights until the cops were blinded and clearly getting pissed off. A screaming couple, perhaps family, were being escorted away, a wave of interested and disrespectful reports rushing after, having no consideration for the tremendous amounts of pain they were probably feeling.

They didn’t even see the body, thank God.

But a pair of eyes were still as can be, the man possessing them like a rock amongst an ocean of clashing waves. There he stood, up against the front lines, his stomach pressed against the tape, yet he stood firm and tall as if not to pass the police line. In his hands were a camera and a small recorder, except he didn’t seem to be using them. No, they were to his sides, because he was so fixated on her.

He was staring hard at Morgan.

What was odd was that there didn’t seem to be much life in his eyes, so dull and empty from much of anything. Somehow, and for some reason, he completely ignored everything around him and kept his attention intently to her. Those eyes made her think of a corpse’s—lifeless with a tinge of dread—and she knew. She’d seen too many in her life.

“Get those other case files in my office, someone needs to start finding any correspondences between these murders. And Morgan,” Joseph called, and she was listening, even though she didn’t stop looking at the strange reporter, not finding the face familiar.

“Yeah?”

“Try and get them to me by 5:00. The more these bodies wrack up, the more the press is going to hound down the department’s throats.” Briefly he glances outside to see the chaos, spotting the strange reporter and not taking much of it, “They sure like making up a nice story to freak out the public.”

“… I’ll get them to you by 2:00,” she said, finally breaking the strange staring competition with the oddball outside. The detective was grateful, carefully escorting her out from the backyard to avoid the media outside. Morgan didn’t look at the strange man again. She had better things to worry about.

Later that day, after successfully slipping away from the press, she drove to the crime labs at the police station and processed the photos in a darkroom. Once they were hanging to dry, she eliminated any blurry films and kept those which she felt would have been useful for law enforcement and evidence. For those she dodged and burned accordingly, making clear and useful prints, and when all was done it had been 2:20, a bit late to her promise. Afterwards, Morgan left a note for the detective and left for the day. She wouldn’t be needed unless they wanted a professional opinion, or until another homicide victim was found.

Finding herself in a local bistro, she took a copy of the Roseville Gazette summer of ’93 and read it during a light lunch—salad and club soda with a slice of some sort of artesian bread—her tired, tired eyes skimming the uninteresting sports sections, local school news, and something on presidential nominee Bill Clinton—until her curiosity drew her back into the macabre of death and despair. The very front was of the most recent murder of town local Lewis Lebberman, whose similar fashion of death to that of the late John Alan could only imply that there was, in fact, a serial killer at large.

“No shit,” Morgan said, sipping her carbonated drink and feeling it burn within her still empty stomach. Too lazy to fully satiate herself, she kept on reading the article, which was composed fashionably so with fine diction and hard, factual evidence that they’d been given by local police, all towards a suggestive narrative towards a killer who probably took a kick out of seeing their growing, expanding popularity because of writers like this. Like the one responsible for this big, huge headline. Morgan took a gander at the name again.

**_Local Killings Not a Coincidence? By Jed Olsen_ **

“Brilliant work, Mr. Olsen,” Morgan grumbled, “For making the police’s job significantly more tedious.”

More like annoying because they’d probably have more and more deaths on their hands. More annoying because the public will get impatient as the chase grows longer, and trails perhaps colder, and the suspicions of the police department being second rate and low tier burn brighter. Plus, her own job would only be that much difficult. At the very least, no one ever questioned the photographer. Tod, on the other hand, she felt bad for. On occasion he shared when a reporter would show up to the morgue, or hell even his doorsteps.

Indeed, she was rather lucky for not having to worry about that sort of bullshit.

Morgan paid the fee, left a nice tip as she always did—she was a waitress once—and, with the summer heat too grand to go for a walk and let out some serotonin, she returned home for the remainder of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE STORY UNFOLDZ


	3. The Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan doesn't consider a word until she is finally pulled into a trial. It's time for her to believe.

Chapter 3: Trial

It was warm.

Somehow.

Given her decent sense for time, Morgan was sure about five hours had passed ever since the peculiar started to happen. In that time they told her where she was, what ran it, and what happened between the little rests by the fire, the safe haven. At first, she found them all frustratingly, insultingly mad. Morgan had gotten up, a feverish intent to find a phone and dial for the police station burning in her veins. But as she ran through the forest with fear and trepidation swelling behind her eyes, only to find herself back at the fire, she’d began to realize that something truly was wrong.

Morgan wasn’t the sort of person to argue, but she was stubborn. She’d traversed through the forest a few more times, which piled up into a couple hours wasted, only to end up back at the quaint, eerie little campsite, sometimes with a new set of confused faces. It made no sense, she’d been going nothing but straight, yet it always yielded her the same outcome. For now, she sat, waiting for… honestly, she wasn’t sure what. To believe the odd, fiendish tales that she was fully aware they’d diluted into vague, creepily wispy explanations and recollections was beyond her, a woman of facts. A woman where seeing was, indeed, believing. The camera never left her hands, given it wasn’t her property to begin with, but the police station’s. Yet it was the only thing that was familiar to her. In a sense, it was what shackled her to her sanity.

Her hand reached over to touch the fire. As the flames licked her fingertips, it didn’t burn, but it was warm.

How was it warm?

Each time she’d end up at the fire again, some people had been exchanged with others. People that were just as dirtied; husks, shells of their former selves. A few were happy to be reunited, like they’d been worried of each other in their absence, while others were _introducing_ themselves, but not like with Morgan. No, these people had a mutual understanding about whatever the hell it was that was going on, only they’d just met.

Was that even possible?

Morgan felt the ground, her fingers digging a hole into the dirt, and she realized something. It was peat, not normal soil but peat. Stuff like that you couldn’t find in Florida, but rather up in the northern states or Europe.

“What’s your name?” a voice asked, and as Morgan turned, she saw a man with a thick, brittle beard. He sported a well-used leather jacket with a shirt beneath depicting a reaper, like the cover art of some rock or metal album. The tone of his was soft and mellow, not meek but not overbearing, and the way he carried himself was gentle and humble. A quiet spirit, more than likely one of the nicer of the men, and his voice had a strange accent she’d never met in person. Perhaps he was Canadian.

“I’m Jeffrey. Jeffrey Johansen. You can call me Jeff.”

“… Morgan,” she said, the unsureness and rigidness of her tone so plainly evident that it made the rather nice man’s smile widen. Somehow, he understood her, like he’d been in her place before. He took an interest to her camera.

“You’re a photographer.”

Morgan hummed in response, angling the lens towards the light.

There was a spark of interest in his voice, “That’s a nice canon.”

“It’s an EOS-1,” she explained, and he looked a little surprised.

Admittedly, she was stunned he knew what it was.

“You do professional?”

“I’m a Forensic Photographer,” she said dryly, staring at her well used instrument with hazy eyes, “I take pictures of crime scenes. So I suppose you could say that.”

A few people nearby glanced over at the two, eavesdropping into the conversation, but Morgan didn’t care much. She only sat, waiting, and what for she still wasn’t sure. “That sound’s rough,” Jeff said a little downward, his head hanging low at the mentioning of something so negative. The mood, further sinking down the pits, made Morgan’s throat turn tight. Feeling a bit guilty, she leaned her head up and sniffled. The cold gave her a runny nose. Along his belt she noticed stains, splotches of colors, and after some secretive pondering she’d concluded it was paint. Perhaps he painted.

“What about you?”

Jeff’s eyes lit up a bit, “I am… was… an artist.”

The answer didn’t surprise her, but she humored the suspicious stranger regardless, “What kind?”

“Ehh, nothing particular. Nature, abstract mostly. Had my stuff in galleries once or twice. Mostly freelance, you know?”

“Impressive,” she said, watching his smile form a bit wider, and there was something sentimental about it. Like he really enjoyed smiling and didn’t want to let it waste away.

Again.

Disturbed by that observation, Morgan could only shiver at the melancholy that hung so deeply, desperately low. The longer she waited, the more nervous she became, but she refused to let it show. Instead, she decided to try and cheer her friend, and whoever, up from whatever it was that was killing their spirits. Odd, since she never was a people person, but she simply couldn’t stand sitting in silence like the rest of them. Spotting a rather tired young man to the side, with eyes baggy and face etched into a permanent state of exhaustion, she pointed to him and caught his attention.

“What about you?” she asked, “What’s your name? What do you do?”

With surprise he cleared his throat, his voice shaky and, much like her own before, unsure. “Quentin, I’m Quentin. I’m… a high school student. I’m in senior year, like Steve.” His thumb pointed behind him, and by the tree line was a young man with a soft, brushed back mullet. Two young men, probably no older than nineteen or so, mixed in with the bunch. It made Morgan worried for what sort of shit went down here.

“And the cop, where did he go?”

“Detective Tapp? He’s… been taken,” Quentin trailed off, the sadness and pity in his trembling voice straining her ears, and Morgan’s brows lowered.

“Where? To find the killer?”

“We told you lady,” said the crude English man from before, “That killer of yers is gone. Yer somewhere else now. Somewhere worse.”

“Oh yeah, the ghost story,” she mumbled, wincing when the brute stood suddenly with a fire in his eyes. He showed the most life anyone had in hours, strutting around the fire to stop at a surprisingly respectful distance. The man, named David she remembered, craned his neck to look down at her with disdain. “Yeah, ghost stories. Right, be a wise crack why dontcha? How’s about you explain to me where you were before you ended up here? Wos you asleep in yer bed, maybe runnin’ down the street, er maybe about ta die? In a car crash or somethin’? Well, go on.”

And the bastard was clever, because he knew that regardless of her answer, it would expose the truth. That whatever was happening, wherever she was, it wasn’t normal, but supernatural. Before that, before it all, she wasn’t remotely anywhere near a place like this. None of them seemed to be. It was such a drastic, aggressive change, like they’d been snatch and thrown into a forbidden place that no one’s ever laid their eyes on, and probably would never want to. Starting to concern herself with the possibilities, Morgan only stared hard at the fire without a sound to be made. It made David, all gruff and bossy by nature, scoff with a sideways smirk. Just for a moment, because not long after he didn’t feel much like a victor for being the right one.

“Leave her alone, King, you’ve been in her place once. We all were,” Meg urged.

David waved his arms out as he spoke loudly, but not quite yelling, “’s right, not much of us are lucky like she is. First time I got here, I got a hatchet t’me face! Feng was left alone and got fried ta death by that fucked up doc, and Quentin here had been harassed by the dream demon since before he even got here. She’s lucky, but not fer long, an’ I ain’t cruel ‘nough like all of you ta let her learn the hard way.” With a thick, burly finger he pointed down to Morgan, “Yer gonna get sucked into a trial. Chances are, yer gonna die. You’re gonna want ta die after what they can do ta ya, but you won’t get the chance. Death ain’t permanent here, and trust me, yer gonna wish it was.”

Clattering, bickering, the English man returned to his spot and sat within the circle, his bottom atop a decaying log that groaned beneath him. Some stood in the distance, much like Steve, while others sat on the dirt to keep warm. Morgan, whose expression was null void, only stared deeply into the crisp flames and pondered at everything that had been told to her. Surely, there was some insanity to their words. No concept like this had ever surfaced out in the _real_ world as they called it, but that didn’t suggest it couldn’t exist. Still, she struggled deeply to understand what David King really meant. The man seemed like a duce—an absolute waste and brutal person—but when he spoke, he meant every word, and not in the hopes of frightening her by conjuring up some treacherous lie, but to divulge the truth. Because he didn’t want to be cruel and let her in before she’d find out in a way too awful for anyone. Though she felt it best to remain in silence, Morgan decided to talk to someone, that way her nerves wouldn’t be so fired. But as she turned to face Jeff, who had been sitting by her for some time now, she noticed he was gone. Left behind was a flurry of smoke that dispersed suddenly, thick and grey and stinking of stagnant water and old blood and… something else she couldn’t describe.

Jeff was right there a second ago, and now he was gone. As she touched the ground, she felt the residual warmth his body had left behind.

“He’s been taken to a trial,” Quentin said sadly, his raccoon-like eyes catching the shadows a little too darkly. Morgan thought for a moment before speaking up.

“How… how long do they last?”

“It depends. Sometimes a few minutes, sometimes hours. There’s a lot of things that can give and take to it. Where you’re at, who you’re with, what you’re up against… things you brought and offerings people find in the forest… or the monsters bring along.”

“Monsters?” Morgan asked.

David grunted, grabbing yet another rock and flicking it harshly into the flames. He’d been doing that for a while now. “Killers, he means killers.”

Killers—the ones Bill told her about. The people—though apparently not—that they were really up against. Morgan touched her shoelaces, tightening them to pass the time and keep her cold fingers moving. “Do people always come back?”

David tossed another rock just as her question came up, “Sometimes. Sometimes not. Once in a while people get changed out. I don’t see familiar faces for what feels like days. Months even, but then when I end up back here, they’ll be there waitin’, er vice versa. Makes ya think there’s more than one ‘o these campfires, but every time any of us goes out into the woods to find others, we end up back. Then there’s the void.”

“Don’t,” Quentin interjected, his voice a low hum as he sighed a bit. He always sounded like he suffered from migraines. “We don’t know enough about that place yet to make any assumptions.”

“’course, but Vigo did.”

“Who’s Vigo?” Morgan, in her helpless state of unknowing, desired to learn as much as possible. Knowledge was power, after all, and from what it seemed it was the only source of tactic they could manage to have other than teamwork.

“Someone like us. We’ve never met him, only ever read about him in an old journal we found,” Meg was stretching out her legs, wincing at some sort of residual pain that had been bothering her.

“And who wrote it?” Morgan asked.

“Somebody named Baker. It’s better if you just read it for yourself. It’ll answer all your questions, but the last person to have it was Nancy.”

“Shh, not too loud,” Quentin silenced Meg then glanced behind his back for a second to look towards Steve, “He’s been worried sick about her.”

Inside, there was a strong desire to get her hands on this journal. Given what David said, the chances of her meeting this Nancy girl might have been slim. There was no telling when she’d get the rare opportunity, if at all, so for now she decided to silence her questions and give the lot a break from dwelling on it too much. Oddly considerate of her, she thought, given she was the new one in and the least informed out of the bunch. It was then she was overwhelmed with a dizzy spell. Morgan hunched forward suddenly, her head spinning like a centrifuge. Words were being spoken to her, some laced with concern while others were determinedly trying to give her advice. Pulled into darkness, Morgan felt colder, colder.

And then nothing.

Trees groaned, the sounds of pigs squealing and fires burning pulling her from her sleep-like state. Morgan’s eyes flew open. In an instant she felt warm, the air hot and putrid with smells of rotting carcasses. It was dark out, the occasional barrel lit with bon fires illuminating in the distances. Morgan earned the familiar sound of wheat gliding against one another, dancing in the breeze of the summer night. It wasn’t humid out, but dry. Oddly enough, she was standing. Morgan had never woken from a sleep already standing.

Feet solid on the ground, she bent over to touch it and felt it grainy and chunky. The bundles of dry clay burst between her fingers, the color an off-toned yellow. She’d never touched dirt like this before, but it was nothing like the campfire. She was somewhere else now. Somewhere different.

Was _this_ the cursed trial they were all talking about?

Her heart started to drum in her chest. Already did the panic begin to take its course, and instantly she felt to see if her camera was still with her. Luckily, it was. Morgan felt a little bit better knowing that.

**_E S C A P E !_ **

A small cry escaped her lips. Morgan hunched low to the ground, her body shaking as she spun a full circle. She’d sworn she heard someone demand something of her. Loud, strong, booming, but also full of malice and… dare she say…

It sounded like pure evil.

But that was an odd comparison for her. She’d never heard evil, but rather seen what it could do. So many bodies flashed before her eyes, her memories flooding with all of her jobs in the past five years. Suddenly, Morgan was sick, vomit quickly crawling up her throat until finally she spat up into the grass. The transition had made her dizzy, and the thought of her being the next victim made her lose control for a time. David said she would die in her first trial, no doubt about it, but that she’d come back. Nothing was going to convince her of that. Nothing except experiencing it firsthand.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t willing to find out that hard way. Slowly pushing herself up to her knees, Morgan swayed at the dizzy spell that overcame her and took another survey of the area: a dark, horrible smelling farm. Some half walls of old wood and dilapidated cars with missing tires were here and there. A wall of hay bales and barrels tossed over between random trees that were sprouted here and there. As she looked up, she couldn’t see the leaves on top. Morgan was on her feet, curious of the steely squeaking that echoed somewhere in the distance. As she followed the noise, she saw it. A tall pillar that was sprouting from the ground, fully iron and arching forward with a large, thick hook for slaughtered meat hanging by a rusty, stiff chain. Along the threatening curve of the edge was old, dried blood. Then she heard a surge of electricity when a light came on in the distance, the loud sound of a generator kicking on startling her.

“Calm down,” she closed her eyes, let her breath steady a bit as she listened to the painful racing of her scared, petrified heart. “Calm down, calm down.” A slow, agonizingly shaken breath came out of her quivering mouth.

Then the scream. A woman, crying out loud and desperately into the air, and Morgan found herself cowering deep within one of the dry thorny thickets with newfound fear. Fingers dug into her hair, pulling at the roots. She squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth, shivering. What was she supposed to do? Hide? Run? Die?

**_Help each other._ **

Morgan remembered hearing one of her new-found friends calling that to her before she’d been plucked and transported into this world. That’s what they said was important, to help each other.

She had to help them.

Somehow, she found the courage in her to move. Through the fields of wheat, where she heard the cries for help continue until one final agonizing cry, Morgan charged and batted away the dead grains until she stopped just outside of a run-down shack in the heart of it. There, right there, she felt her heart charge up into a frenzy.

Oh God, she must have been having a heart attack.

"Calm down! Calm down, Morgan, you've seen worse shit... argh!"

Clutching tightly her chest, she winced at the sound of loud, booming footsteps and decided to hide outside within the fields, having a clear view of the door and the stairwell to a dark, dingy looking basement. Morgan felt tears welling up in her eyes, her chest bursting with pain, her heart beating so loud she heart it deep inside of her ears. Red light flashed, and she saw the glowing irises of a man ascending from the basement. It was a man whose skin was dark, and body concealed with a thick leathery cloak. Bandages bound his limbs, the sounds emanating from his throat like a thousand bugs scurrying across wet wood. Like a growl, low and guttural, it made her sink lower into the dirt. Lower, lower, she didn’t want to be seen. But as the man drew closer, she felt like her beating organ would explode from the proximity.

Morgan was about to run off, but she knew she’d make too much of a racket. Just then, he rose a small scythe, the bones adorning it dry and… and real… and human. Fingers came and pressed against her lips. She bit down hard on her knuckles to try and suppress any noise. With the weapon, the horrifying man rung a bell and in an instant, he was cast away.

No, not away. Morgan saw the ground where his feet stood still sunken, and then rise and shift as he walked off.

Not away, but invisible. He was invisible, and the moment he turned she felt her the pain in her heart ease away. A breath, admittedly too loud for comfort, blew into her wet, snotty nostrils. Morgan laid still for some time longer, her eyes shifting left and right, watching intently around the area. The creature, the man, the whatever the hell it was—it was gone, at least for now.

“… go,” she urged herself, darting forward across the small clearing and into the shack. The basement stares were uneven, shifting beneath her weight as she raced a little too loudly and hurriedly, until finally at the last step she drew to a stop. It sounded… wet down there. Wet and awful, and there was growling. Morgan heard growling, like a beast was lying in wait. Had this been a bad move on her part. Should she turn and run? Being down there felt awful, intimidating, terrifying, but at the sound of crying and struggling she decided to take that last step.

With her back against the wall she stared with horrified eyes, seeing a woman hanging limply along the hook by their shoulder. The room was tarnished in red. Old blood painted the walls, the floors. There were entrails and tools and terrible, terrible noises of evil, creeping things. Lockers were scattered about, undoubtedly with nothing useful inside of them. Pulling herself together, fighting back the sickness that was about to burst forth from her stomach, she walked forward drunkenly, stumbling all the way until she felt the softness of their slacks and the white smooth surface of their button down. Their eyes flew open, Morgan looping her fingers around their belt loops and staring up at them with tear-stricken eyes.

“H-Hold my shoulders if you can,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around their hips as gently as possible. The girl braced herself, her eyes shut tight, and with all the strength she could muster Morgan lifted her up and up. No, she didn’t want to drop her by accident. It would hurt her even more, and she would scream. Luckily the woman had enough strength to brace herself against Morgan’s shoulder with her good arm. Their feet hit the metal grating, their body leaning against Morgan for just a few seconds. Gags came from the stranger, her breathing heavily labored. The pain was immense, unimaginable, but she was handling it in a way that Morgan wasn’t expecting.

Like she was used to it.

Once upstairs, Morgan took a moment to breath, but the woman was already trying to exit the front door. “Don’t, you’re hurt, give yourself a minute.”

“He knows, they all know when we’re taken down. We have to hide somewhere, hurry.”

Another boom of electricity. Somewhere a generator was brought to life, the blond woman glancing in the distance. “Good, Adam’s got another generator. That makes three, yeah?” she looked to Morgan for some sort of confirmation. She wasn’t following.

“I… what are you talking about?”

They exchanged looks for a moment, the woman’s eyes gleaming with confusion, and then realization, and then absolute dread. Her hand came up, ushering impatiently for Morgan to follow closely. As they cut through the fields, she began to speak to Morgan about the trial. “There’s ways to get out, but they need power. If you fix the wiring in some of the generators here, they’ll feed power into the mechanisms that control the gates. We have to be careful, they can make noise, but there’s no other choice.”

“Escape… with generators? What the fuck is this place?” Morgan almost wanted to laugh, her hands shaking as she watched the woman struggled with tearing at her sleeve. “Help me with this, will you?”

Using her teeth, Morgan teared away at the sleeve and wrapped up the gaping hole. It was a crude, barbaric way to dress the wound. Surely, it would get infected, and she’d have to lose the arm. Morgan’s heart sank, her stomach churning again. Morgan watched as she stared out into the field, searching for any sign of danger as they laid low for a bit.

“Are… Are you Nancy?” Morgan asked, catching a dumbfounded look from the severely injured woman.

“No, I’m Laurie Strode.” Pressing her back against the hay, she stared the woman up and down, momentarily captivated by her camera. “What about you?”

“Morgan Yoon.”

Laurie’s face cringed in pain, her teeth covered in blood. A cough came from her, some blood splattering out onto the collar of her shirt. “Morgan, I’m sorry… there’s a lot you need to know, but we can’t talk about it. Not now.” Another generator, and Laurie grinned a bit hopefully for a split second. “One more. We'd be out now if Ace wasn't such a damn coward... listen to me, go find a gate. Somewhere along the surrounding wall. When the light on the box goes on, pull the handle and try to get a door open. When it does, run. Don’t wait for anyone, don’t try and save anybody. Just get out while you can.”

“But, I was told I had to help.”

“Believe me,” Laurie insisted, “That **is** helping.” Morgan was about to stand when Laurie grabbed tightly against her sleeve.

“Stay alert. _Always_. _Watch_. _Your back_.”

A hurried nod. With that, Morgan took off towards the nearby wall and began to encircle the perimeter. Hands gripped tightly on her camera as she tried to stay low, her eyes spotting any strange distant movement that looked suspicious. A crow craws and flew violently off into the night sky, starling Morgan and slightly turning her off course. Hellbent she kept forward though, through thickets and thorns and behind burning barrels, darting tree to tree and hiding behind large rock formations and tall stacks of old, broken tires. At last, she had spotted a large, crude metal gate. So Morgan waited nearby, and as the time passed painfully slow, and screams and cries echoed into the night sky, Morgan forced herself to stay in her post until the final boom of a generator goes off and the green light flashed upon the power box. Desperately she pulled down the handle, hearing a timer ticking slowly.

Slowly.

The doors beeped loudly, sounding off once. Morgan waited. The air was growing thick. It was too quiet.

Another beep, this time louder. Her heart was thrumming madly. Morgan looked behind her still, staring with big eyes for anything out of the ordinary. There, in the distance, she saw someone hiding. Another person. Barely did she notice them with their sunglasses on. They only nodded, as if reassuringly, encouragingly. Morgan jumped when the gates beamed one last noise before they screeched open noisily. The man in the hat and glasses came out from his hiding spot, rushing in passed her and stopping just by the brick pillars within.

“They got it covered. Should be… on their way now I bet, and I'm great at bets. Heheh,” he said, the fear lacing his voice evident as he attempted to put on a cool front. In the distance, a man with a tanned coat was racing forward, Laurie still injured and close behind him. Morgan, who was about to leave, stopped when she noticed a shrub shift on its own.

“He’s behind you!” she screamed, watching as the strange creature became visible at the sound of a bell, it’s towering form swinging forward towards the coated man. But Laurie had Interjected, taking the brutal hit to her chest and falling painfully upon the ground. Morgan, stunned, felt the arms of the men take hold of her and attempt to pull her towards the darkness, where in the distance she could see and endless fog. It looked far more dangerous than it did freedom. There, Laurie was pulled up, her cries terrified as she kicked and screamed against the tall being. There was a knitting needle in her hands, but it slipped from her bloody grip and landed somewhere lost into the blades.

“Come on, we can’t save her!”

“Let’s go, missy, else we’re dead too!”

A last look from Laurie with blood shot, tear filled eyes. Pale, forlorn, like a corpse dead on the ground covered in flies. Morgan never got sentimental over them. She couldn’t. It was her job, and she always felt terrible for it.

“Help each other,” she said, pushing passed the men and back into the nightmarish world. He’d been heading for a hook. There she saw it, gleaming in the cornfields. With her camera in hand, Morgan felt the pain return to her chest. She stumbled, her heart screaming, pleading inside of her head, but she kicked herself back up until she was just along the creature’s peripheral. It must have heard her, because it turned to look at her.

Morgan turned her flash up and took a photo.

Blinded by the sudden light, the monster dropped Laurie and rubbed away the white, dotty vision with its dirtied hands. Morgan screamed, hollering loudly as she pushed Laurie faster, faster. So quickly she sprinted, her legs about to burst, and she could only imagine the aching girl in front of her. Behind, she could hear the ground booming as it picked up speed and pursued with hound-like intent. When Laurie stalled, nearly toppling over, Morgan slipped her good arm over her shoulder and dragged her the remaining distance. The men had stayed, grabbing hold of Laurie, and they all rushed out. Morgan heard the sound of a blade slash. At the most, she lost a few strands of her choppy, short hair.

By the end, Morgan noticed she was back at the fire. A few familiar faces were present, while old ones were replaced with new people. Arms had wrapped around Morgan suddenly, startling her. Laurie held her tightly, her body shaking as she shook her fervently. “I told you to run, what if you got yourself killed!” Laurie said, but Morgan was too compelled, almost rendered speechless.

“Your arm, your clothes,” she muttered quietly, “Everything's better. How… how is that possible?”

Laurie’s brows pinched together. It seemed Morgan should have known all of this. “Everything goes back to normal when we’re back at the fire… did no one tell you?”

Not entirely, probably because there was too much to tell. Morgan’s grip on her camera tightened, her stoic eyes locked into Laurie’s as she struggled to contain whatever it was happening inside. Deep down, Morgan wanted to cry. She hadn’t cried in a long time, and for some reason she felt now wasn’t a good enough excuse to. If anything, she felt crying would make everything worse. Laurie looked at her, the anger subsiding fast, and Morgan felt a surge of that mutual understanding everyone seemed to have. Understanding and pity. Morgan's whispered harshly, "What is this place?"


	4. Jed Olsen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On her way from another crime scene, Morgan is confounded when she spots that strange reporter waiting for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy writing the even chapters.

Another day.

As Morgan pressed the silvery button, she heard the clatter of her camera’s shutter just before the bright flash of white light momentarily blinded the investigation party.

Another day, another murder.

Another job.

Much like the rest, and the frequency of the killings being so close could only entail that the murderer was getting confident. That, or impatient, hell, maybe cocky. John Alan came first, on February 16, followed by Lewis Lebberman a whole month later. Two weeks after that was the 82-year-old woman, Alice Conway, which was found gruesomely murdered—a case which Morgan photographed just six days ago—and now, this.

Shit, it was only a child and her mother, together on the ground dead.

Joseph wasn’t happy. It wasn’t often a homicide detective had to face grueling murders one after the other, let alone with a sea of fact hungry reporters that only fed the community into a deeper, more terrible state of feverish anger. Misdemeanors and attempted sexual battery cases were a cake walk, far less stressful and less involved with family. Already did Joseph speak with the husband, asked the normal questions. If there was anybody against them, or known to have threatened any of them. If there was someone suspicious or an old friend. Even if the husband and his late, dead wife had a spat or history of alcoholic violence. A mean but necessary question. According to Joseph, most murders are done by someone whom the victim loved dearly.

This was different though.

“Shit,” Tod hissed, his brow sweating, and though it was cooler in the living room compared to the last few, Morgan could already see the sweat beginning to stink up his armpits. “This is all the same stuff. Probably same guy.”

“Fucking hell,” Joseph seethed, his foot stopping against the tiles as he gritted his heel to the ground mercilessly. Perhaps he was pretending that the killer at large was beneath his shoe, being pulverized to death. It would save them all the trouble, and the lives to be lost in the future, too. “Cocky, fucking, bastard! He’s not leaving anything behind.” Another policeman was nearby, his head tilting up to see something in the corner of the room.

“What about that? It looks like a piece of cloth.”

On the wall was a gaping hole, long and thin and a bit dented in. A knife was jabbed into the drywall, a piece of cloth hanging from it, and Morgan quickly snapped a photo. “Guess he tried to stab them and missed,” Morgan contemplated.

“And the clothing? Is it from the victims?” The officer asked.

“We’ll run proper tests just in case. The mother is wearing grey, but her shirt is sheer. Maybe loose weaved cotton. What about the stuff on the wall?” Tod asked, and Joseph with his gloved hands felt it between his fingers.

“It’s... thick. I’m not sure what it’s made from. Morgan, put a glove on,” Joseph said.

As she was handed two fresh latex gloves, she slid them on swiftly before carefully assessing the new found evidence. In her hands, though she could not feel the texture, she noted it was smooth and dense. Morgan imagined that whatever it belonged to, it was weighty.

“Heavy, maybe coated? I see a second layer bound to it,” Morgan pondered.

“Coated fabric, possibly PVC. It’s the kind of stuff you find on raincoats or outdoor wear. If it’s water proof, our guy probably washes his stuff off before he uses it again,” Tod explained.

Removing her gloves, she toned out the discussion while taking a subtle glance back at the bodies. The mother, so cold and hard, eyes full of fear with dry tear streaks along the face. And then the kid...

Morgan looked away. She always looked away before she got too far gone into it all. Something about children dying always bothered the hell out of her, as it should for anyone, and that meant it was easier for her to get lost in the sentiment. It wasn’t professional to cry out in the field, terrible or not. She’d been doing this for years. Death was death, no matter what. But damn, did some people die so agonizingly. Outside she saw the people gathering. So many what ifs on their minds and who dun its, countless people wanting to get in on the news. Wanting to be the first to know, whether to tell their friends, or the press, who knew. Who cared. All Morgan knew was she never understood rubbernecking accidents in the highway, or gathering when kids pummeled each other during lunch in high school. When fights or terrible things broke loose, Morgan would slip away and be by her lonesome. On some occasions, she’d be joined with friends or strangers who shared the same disdain towards those likes, but sooner or later they, too, would get curious and wander out into the masses.

And then, Morgan would be left alone.

It made her wonder why she was here, taking photos and being a professional witness in court. Working with cops and snapping shoots of bodies littered in bruises, or bullets, or stabs. A cold shiver went up Morgan’s back, tickling along her spin up to her slender shoulders, and subconsciously she felt like someone was watching. Again, she looked outside and saw him.

That same. Damn. Guy.

Just staring, with his hollow eyes and dead looking face, no emotions and not even blinking. Just staring, watching her with the intensity of a vulture, observing. And there was no way telling why, or what he was thinking. For some reason, she stared back, only for a tiny bit. This time, he broke the glance first and weaved back into the crowd of crazy reporters.

“If you’re done Morgan, you can go. Try going around the back that way no one bothers you. And get those photos to me by-”

“By five, I know. When haven’t I?” she interjected, earning a tired smile from Joseph.

It was noon now, the sun beginning to reach it’s highest peak and shining with a blinding, intolerable presence. Slipping out the back gate where a few officers were posted, she bid them a chaste goodbye and made her way down the thin, lonely sidewalk. The houses here were separated by hedges, large trees bordering the road and shading the way. Leaves piled beneath her feet as she trampled over them with black dress shoes, her heavy lidded eyes contrasting the white of her collared dress shirt. Morgan had her camera back in her bag, which lung across her chest and over a shoulder. She had it since college, and since it was leather, not only did it protect her precious thing but it was sturdy and durable. Morgan felt the breeze blow her hair as she neared the end of the street, where her car was parked in the driveway of a foreclosed house. There, she saw a stranger leaning against the trunk of her car. Morgan stopped, her eyes widening a tad when she noticed just who it was.

The same man from before.

Only this time, when he looked up at her, there was a brightness to his face. Eyes lit up, his lips pulling into a cheesy smile as if he’d been clever. He didn’t even bother to hide the recorder or the small, silver camera that slung around his neck by a thin, braided cord. Shit, Morgan thought, her neck craning to the side as her heavy eyes rolled slightly. She knew what this was.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” he broke the ice, smoothly too, with a voice of clear diction and a prominence that she well knew was dangerous. It meant he knew how to talk, and manipulate, and get what he wanted. She figured he’d be a fine cop if he wasn’t too busy sticking his nose in shit he shouldn’t be in.

“How’d you know where I’d be heading?”

“No one parks in a vacant home when a crime was just around the corner, am I right?” He explained. Morgan had finally reached her car, passing him and ignoring his large, strong looking hand that was being held out. Morgan hated shaking hands.

“Guess I should learn to find someplace a bit less obvious, huh?” Morgan said, opening her car door and placing her bag in gently. She casted him a lazy look, studying his expectant face for a split second before scoffing, “You going to move, or am I going to have to just run you over?”

The guy’s face twisted a bit, turned slightly sour before suddenly he started actually, genuinely giggling at that. “Are you always this snide?”

Morgan grinned, but it bled with sarcasm. “Only when guys put their butts on my car like they own it.” Almost instantly did he get off, his eyes casting a weary glance at the tail end of her car for any dents. Again, she couldn’t help but remember the stark contrast he was compared to when he stood in the crowd. With soulless looking eyes and a face remanent to that of an old, dry skull. She was halfway in her car when he jogged up to her, his eyes bleeding with remorse.

“Hey, hey, hey! Miss, I’m sorry okay? Sometimes my extrovert-ish nature makes me say stupid things,” he apologized, the camera and recorder now far down and out of the way. It was just him and her, no tapes rolling and no photos being shot. It was odd to her. While he was missing out on nice, quick shots and opportunities for some great interviews with cops too push over for their jobs. Rather, he was here, with her, a lady who probably wasn’t worth asking questions to.

Why on earth she felt like humoring him, she wasn’t quite sure. Detesting the media, her first impression of him was biased and left a foul taste in her mouth. Morgan looked up at his face, a handsome man in his thirties with some stubble on his face and... those pale, pale, lifeless looking eyes. Why did they seem to distant and dull?

Morgan sighed, swinging her legs back out of the car to face him better. She didn’t find the energy in her to stand. “What do you want from me, big shot?” That awkward smile of his grew bigger.

“Some info? Leads? Juicy details?” He went on, but suddenly as if remembering his manners he paused and grinned to himself. “Maybe I should start with an introduction. I’m Jed Olsen, I write for the Roseville Gazette.”

Jed. Jed Olsen. She remembered his name too well, and almost instantly her stomach went sour. Morgan worried it showed in her face, but then he did something. He held out his hand and waited for a shake. She was sure her face looked ugly now. With a smile too forced on her lips, Morgan looked up at him and completely ignored the gesture.

“Morgan Yoon.”

Jed grinned, “Yoon? That’s cute, what is it?”

“Korean,” her tone was flat, the edges a bit crisp as she annunciated her consonants a tad rigidly. Jed only nodded in acknowledgement, pocketing his gear, and he left his hands deep inside of his grey trousers. “Can we meet up somewhere? Maybe I can take you out someplace for lunch?”

Bold and brazen, Morgan looked shocked, her smile growing a bit bigger than even she expected. There wasn’t much time to think up a clever response, so she merely shook her head. Disappointment flooded his face, but only for a brief moment before it turned into yet another sly smile, “You sure? I mean, it’s free, and I’m pretty handsome.”

“Listen, Mr. Olsen, what happens at my job is strictly confidential. I’m not permitted to give out testimonies and information unless permitted by law enforcement, and that usually only ever happens at trials,” she explained. For a moment, he pondered, his finger between his lips as he bit the edge of his thumbnail.

“Well, why not just tell me about you?”

Morgan rose a brow, “You want to know about me?”

“You, your profession—technical stuff, not anything crazy—maybe even tell me about closed cases. Those are all public domain, yeah?”

With a suspicious glance, she stared at him with narrow eyes as he fished within his pocket for something. “No,” she said, but he’d already flicked a business card onto her lap. “I don’t want this,” she said, but Jed only held his hands up.

“Then throw it away, yeah? C’mon, think about it. Give me a chance, and I’ll take you out. It’ll be fun! Maybe I’ll even throw in some dessert or a walk in the park. Gals like that sort of thing, right?” Holding his card, she waved it in the air towards him, an awkward, albeit annoyed, laugh breathily escaping her lungs.

“You have got to be kidding me. I’m not going to fall for this—you aren’t getting case information out of me over dinner.”

Jed held his hands up defensively, “I told you, it’ll be nothing about the case. Just us! Pinky promise?” As he held out his pinky, Morgan only stared, baffled at how painfully sociable he was. Another smile flashed over his teeth, which looked seamless and pearl-like. With a click of his tongue, Jed turned to leave. “Catch you later, yeah?”

Then he was strolling off, not giving her another glance as his form got smaller and smaller down the sidewalk. With strained eyes she watched after him, her expression long and exasperated, until he’d turned the corner and was completely out of sight. A groan bellows from her mouth, her face burying into her hands as she tried to comprehend what had just happened. Again, she looked to the cared, with it’s corners slightly bent, but overall it was crisp. When she flipped it, she noticed a phone number written in the back with red ink.

Huh, so he’d planned it?

“Clever dick,” Morgan hissed, flicking the card somewhere in the backseat before taking her leave. Too tired, she was too tired for this. Talking with reporters was always tricky; they’d do anything for an information slip. To be so perfectly conscious of one’s words meant a lot of mental power, something that Morgan didn’t feel like sacrificing right now. Especially over lunch with a man like Olsen, whose silver tongue and cunning brain—though something she could manage to outmatch—would thoroughly exhaust her before the meeting could end.

Photographs, she had to process those photographs by five. Morgan headed to the labs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Olsen being a very good people person. Do you guys find people like that charming or annoying? Perhaps both?


	5. The Hopeless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan made use of Baker's journal, but one thing she didn't quite understand. The Void, and the whole talk of "hope." Morgan simply couldn't understand what was so important about it until a trial against a notorious killer she'd only ever heard mentioned.

Chapter 5: The Hopeless

It took time, but after some handful of trials and countless horrifying moments in between, Morgan had met Nancy. It must have been well over a week since she’d been brought there. In that time, she’d been in possession of Benedict Baker’s journal for some odd days, perhaps four at the most. But she’d finished it already, several times in fact, and as she read and read, Morgan absorbed.

She learned, she adapted, and once done she’d go back and read it again.

Whoever this man was, he knew much. He, too, was an observer, keen to detail with the eyes of a researcher. A man hungry to find the mystery behind it all, and he found it. The pages were filled with much regret for his long search, and it was heavily doused in grime and even blood. The book was leather bound and the handwriting cursive, the pages of actual parchment and the letters slicing slightly into the fabric. Morgan deduced it was written with a quill and Indian ink.

All in all, this journal was old as hell.

But that didn’t stop Morgan. The more she learned, the more terrified she’d become, but that didn’t stop her. The small bit of time she had with Nancy, they exchanged concepts and ideas. Deeply they discussed, and she was grateful for that girl, and all her bravery and determination in wanting to find the truth. Morgan felt she’d be a fine journalist one day, which was strange given she hated them so much. She figured Nancy could be her one and only favorite reporter outside of… well, someone else.

She didn’t want to be thinking about him right now. She’d miss him, very much so, and the world she was from if she got too sentimental with the memories. So for now, Morgan would read and read, studying as much as she could, learning about the entity and where she was.

There were even notes on some killers, though according to her fellow survivors not all of them. At some point, Benedict Baker disappeared, and his book ceased from being update. It was found deep in the forest, abandoned and alone beneath one of the many haunting trees, knotted deep into the ground and covered with bog lilies and other strange plants that—according to Claudette—were of species she’d never even heard of before.

Morgan learned of the other survivors as much as she could, too, for though they were all very different people, all they had were each other. Each were skilled in their own ways, some more than others, but in certain situations they would greatly exceed over the rest. Now, she knew so many people that her fingers couldn’t even count. She’d taken the liberty to take pictures of them, that way she had a point of reference. The rough roster was something that helped her when introducing survivors to others whom never met them. It gave them a better sense of ground, and hopefully in the future could help in developing a plan when suddenly pulled to a trial with new people.

No pictures she’d take in a trial would stay, however, like it would in the realm of the campfire.

Scrolling back a bit too far, she saw a picture of _him._ The dreaded Roseville killer, the Ghostface, in the swampy terrain chasing her the night. Knife held high and face long and horrifying, the belts fluttering behind him. She remembered hearing the leather snapping and his gleeful giggles as he chased her.

**_So close baby… I’M SO CLOSE! RIGHT BEHIND YOU!_ **

She turned off her camera and shut her eyes tight. No, she didn’t want to think about that.

Once again, she thought of the many mysteries of this place. There was too much she didn’t know to deduce why that was the case, but she knew it had something to do with _time._ They wouldn’t die, no matter what happened in those horrible games. Morgan had yet to been sacrificed, having escaped every time. She’d go out of her way to work well and learn who she was with. To set up strategies and get as many out alive. Until now, almost everyone had escaped when grouped with her. It’s made her a rather prominent figure amongst her other kin, as much as she hated being in the limelight. It didn’t always work out, however, such as with David who would grow restless when suggested a course of action, or to Bill who was well over all their ages and felt he’d be best fit to make the decisions. During those times, someone died, and though it wasn’t her, it didn’t change the fact that the team dynamics played a major role in survival.

Right now, she was scrolling through the photos of people, studying their faces and trying to remember their names—something that she was always terrible with. The campfire was lonesome, everyone having gone their separate ways. To the side, however, she did see some people wandering about the darker areas. Searching for something to offer or to chew on, like pine bark or fresh twigs. A familiar face was swinging a bat about—Steve Harrington, the young man from the 80’s. Many things crossed her mind now as she looked at him.

He had a bat, for one, and though she’d never been in a trial with him, she was certain the few items people had on there person wasn’t always with them. Morgan, for one, was lucky her camera was brought with her. So was Laurie and her knitting needles, so she wondered why they even had them by the campfire. Perhaps it was chance, or a way to protect the killers? Still, that made no sense to her.

Secondly, was the fact that they weren’t all pulled from the same periods of time. As Baker’s journal said, even killers ranged from eras far and wide. According to Nancy, the world was in 1982 when they were pulled in only very recently, and for Morgan a week ago was in the spring of ’93. Either way, given they were both born in 1964, both Steve and Nancy were only five years younger than Morgan, who was born in 1959.

Steve and Nancy claim they’re 17.

Meanwhile, Morgan was 34.

It just wasn’t adding up.

She pondered some more until she remembered something. Morgan slowly stood, her back popping as she finally stretched. Once close, Steve gave her a tired glance, “Hey.”

Morgan nodded, watching him flip about his baseball bat with boredom. “Are you an athlete?” she asked, and he shrugged.

“Sort of. I’d like to think of myself as a professional babysitter, though.”

A smirk played her lips for a bit, watching as he chuckled and chewed on a twig, her bat continuing to flip about between his big hands. But then, he fell silent once more, a sad look in his eyes. Morgan let her camera hang from her neck as she rubbed her cold hands together.

“Nancy said hi.”

That got him. Frozen, he looked to Morgan with wide eyes, his mouth agape like he wasn’t expecting that. Steve faced her now, “You saw her?”

“She’s the one that gave me the journal,” Morgan flipped through it before him, exposing the well-worn pages, “Her and I chatted for a long time. She’s a smart girl. I wouldn’t worry too much about her.”

And like that, he seemed far less tense like he usually was. With his back against the tree, Steve let out a shaky breath, the pain on his face evident, in yet he was smiling once again. Teeth caught his bottom lip as he bit down hard. “Is she… okay?”

“About as okay as anyone could be in here. I was in one trial with her. She escaped.”

“I knew she would,” he said, “She always knows what she’s doing.”

They took a moment of silence, appreciating each other’s company, before Steve pushed himself off the tree and held out his hand. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t… I don’t remember your name.” Morgan took it. It was far easier for her to shake hands now.

“Morgan Yoon. I know you’re Steve Harrington. Nancy told me a lot about you.”

He seemed flattered by that, the tips of his ears turning red, and then he looked sad. Like he’d been missing her a whole hell of a lot. Though it didn’t feel like something she’d do, Morgan patted his shoulder and began to lead him towards the forest.

“Let’s go find some offerings, yeah?”

“…okay.”

Flowers were tugged from their roots, a bushel of different things in Steve’s hands as he knelt by a patch of them in a small clearing. Where Morgan struggled to earth a particularly big plant, Steven would come by and pluck it from the ground with minimal effort. They spoke of random things—of their eras, and their lives before, and their interests. At some point, the talk of a strange creature came up. A Demogorgon, the monster who followed them there, and instantly it made Morgan think of the stories of Kreuger and Quentin, or Ace and the horrible Hag. Two killers she’d yet to have met. Morgan learned fast that some survivors did not come with a killer close behind them, such as Ash, whose stories were lined with wicked demons and, at one point, the possessed body of his headless fiancé. Finding his stories hard to believe, Morgan had to remember that anything was plausible there.

Even strange demons that traversed between their world and the upside-down that Steve so fervently spoke of.

“Did… you have a killer follow you here?” Steve asked, the conversation difficult to have, but important nonetheless. Morgan paused, her hands coated with thick peat that tainted her fingertips brown and black. As the petals fell from a particularly dead flower in her hands, she thought back to the strange, terrifying killer that chased her across the Florida swamps just beyond her backyard that one fateful night. The night that everything changed.

“I’m not sure, but I doubt it,” she admitted.

Steve gulped, “What did they look like? I’ve… seem something new…”

Morgan sifted through the flowers worth keeping now, “A man in all black, with a mask of a screaming ghost. He had a knife.”

“Who was he?”

“A killer from my hometown. I worked with the police and took pictures of crime scenes. He tried to kill me in my house one night, and then I ended up here. The last thing I saw was him coming at me,” she muttered.

“Oh, I’ve never ran into anything like that before. Maybe you’re right,” he said. Morgan could only hope he was.

As they returned to the fire, they met up with some other survivors. Their offerings were tossed in, burning quickly and leaving a nasty smell in the air. For some time, they spoke, their bodies close to the flames. There was that terrible dread in the air, but something about Steve was different. After Morgan told him about Nancy, and after speaking with him about life before, he seemed a bit… happier. Noticing the slight boost of enthusiasm, it was spreading to the others. They actually began to talk and grow a bit more involved with each other.

It was interesting, to say the least.

As they spoke, Morgan flipped through the pages of the journal to find a particular section she couldn’t quite understand. The Void, it was called, and as she read about what Baker said, she always thought back to David and Quentin’s conversation.

_I know little of this place, but when another like myself loses hope, they are lost to it. Husks, empty shells of their former selves. Soulless, lifeless, and useless to the Entity. As Vigo told me in his time within it, it was a place for the truly damned._

Baker’s words would have shaken her if she only understood it to its full extent, but even then she doubted Baker himself knew what he was writing of. There he went about hope again. It seemed to be something that the Entity desired, but what was it? Was did he mean by _hope_?

Once again, Morgan glanced up to see Steven’s face; there was a smile there, one she’d never seen before until he was given some good news, and the energy in his body that was usually sulking. Across from him was Dwight, whose eyes were distant and almost gone. He was sitting there with them, but not truly there to begin with. Like he’d already given up and just been _waiting_ for the dreadfulness that was going to come. Regardless of what he’d do.

_Hope… as in…_

“Oh no… no, no, no, not again!” Dwight’s panic called Morgan back to reality, and she watched as the smoke was engulfing him. No, not only him, but her as well, and Steve.

Again, she felt weightless, and a sleep overcame her.

As she opened her eyes, she found herself staring at a jack-o-lantern. Almost instantly, Morgan shivered. The air wasn’t quite freezing, but it was cold, the swing sets creaking and the flash of cop lights flickering in the distance. Almost instantly, Morgan raced for them.

_Police… there’s police!_

But as she passed by a bush, she felt a hand grab her wrist and yank her back. She’d screamed if it weren’t for her mouth being covered. Before Morgan could kick away, she froze at the sight of a tall, menacing form passing by. If she’d crossed that sidewalk, she would have been slashed by the butcher knife in his hand. Morgan’s hair stood.

It was a killer.

 _Shhhhh,_ the sound flooded her ears. Soon, the tall man in dark blues turned the corner and went for the backyard of the yellow house. Once gone, she felt the slowly fall away and rest upon her shoulder shakily. Morgan leaned back against their chest, her heart racing.

She didn’t even feel the tall-tell signs of a killer nearby. Was it some sort of ability they possessed?

“T-Thank you…” she mumbled, leaning forward and letting the stranger go free. Upon looking, she saw it was none other than the quietest survivor of them all. Jake was never sociable, and often times when Morgan attempted to approach him, he’d speak minimally before slinking off somewhere to be alone.

“Don’t be tricked… you’re not back home.”

What he said could only imply that she wasn’t the first to expose herself at the sight of police lights. Perhaps he was implying that he’d suffered a terrible fate for seeking a rescue that wasn’t ever really there. Jake glanced around the shrubs, his eyes boring intensely at the direction of the killer for a moment before he walked towards the street. Morgan followed after him.

“How did you know he was there?” Morgan asked.

“If you’re quiet, you can hear his breathing… that’s the only sign, at least until he gets excited.”

“You’ve faced him before then?”

Jake nodded, “Too much… I’ve died every time.”

No, that sounded awful. Shaking, Morgan glanced around nervously, following Jake across the street and towards a blue house. There was generator in sight, and they were about to start when Jake stopped them. Morgan staggered behind him, “What is it?”

“Someone’s been here,” he muttered, feeling the grass and seeing… something that she just wasn’t. “I can see footprints. They’re small, probably a men’s size eight.”

Admittedly, she was impressed. Noting his tracking skills, she watched Jake contemplate anxiously for a moment before she began to speak.

“The killer was at least six foot seven. I doubt it was him unless he has small feet.”

After a few moments, he seemed convinced and allowed them to work. “You’re right.” They worked patiently, Jake reassuring to keep an eye around as they pressed wires together and scrubbed the dried oil and dirt from the sensors. The generator began to pump, moving freely as the second passed, until finally it was finished. Morgan was about to dart off before Jake stopped her once more. With a finger he pointed towards the fence line, revealing several crows.

“They work for _it,_ lets avoid them.”

“…yes, alright, lead the way.”

Much was still to be learned for her. They traversed through the house and outside the front door. Jake listened for breathing looked for footsteps, and when the coast was clear they pushed forward across the street once more. From there, they took a moment to breath. A soft whimper could be heard. Morgan’s back shivered when she glanced at an astray locker. “Did you hear that?” she whispered. Slowly Jake approached it before pulling the door open. Almost instantly a cry emerged, the door being shut once more. Jake growled.

“You fucking coward,” Jake hissed, pulling it open once again to reveal Dwight cowering. The man wallowed, his glasses dirtied and body shaking visibly.

“J-Just leave me alone,” he said, but Jake only grabbed the fabric of his tie and tugged him out violently. Dwight hit the dirt, his shoulder turning green with grass stains as he kicked himself up against the fence line with labored breaths. He shook his head violently as Morgan and Jake stared down at his cowering form.

“He’s… scared shitless,” Morgan said, brows pinched, and she didn’t know what to say or do.

Jake glared, disgust evident in his face, “I don’t give a fuck. You have to help us or else we’ll all die, you hear me Dwight?”

“I saw who we’re up against,” Dwight mumbled, the snot in his nose glistening as the flashing red and blue lights casted across his pasty white face. “I-I saw him… h-he’s different. You can’t hear him, not at first, but then he start’s chasing you. H-He’s slow at first, but he’ll get quick. He gets quicker and quicker and quicker until… until…”

Morgan tilted her head, her hammering heart wincing at the sight of his man. “Until what?”

“It doesn’t matter, we need to work now! And that’s including you, do you hear me?” a finger was jabbing painfully at Dwight’s chest, the man jerking away as the tears fogged up his glasses. Slowly, Morgan approached Dwight and helped him up.

“He killed me last time, stabbed me and threw me to the side. He’s fucking evil I tell you, pure evil.”

“C’mon, if we stick together we’ll be safer,” Morgan reassured, her eyes never leaving behind them as they traversed forward. Finding yet another generator, Dwight was reluctant to work.

“No, the noise…!”

But Jake was already working on in, despite Dwight’s beckoning to stop. In the heat of the moment he began to panic, and Morgan grasped his shoulders and stared him dead in the eyes. Like he was already giving up completely, lost, hopeless.

 _Hope… hope,_ Morgan thought, _I… I think I get it._

She noticed the management badge on his chest and worked with it. “Calm down Dwight, stay with me. You were a manager, right?”

“I… s-so?”

“Help us… please Dwight. You’re organized, you worked under stress. I know this is different—really **fucking** different—but you need to try. We all have to be valuable to each other, just like a bunch of employees in a store. Right?” Dwight was reluctant, his eyes staring with unsureness towards Jake and the noisy, noisy generator. Arms squeezed tightly to his sides, he desperately wanted to run and hide for as long as he could, and perhaps the Entity would return him back if he’d lived long enough. But Morgan’s hands grasped his face, forced him to look at her, and she spoke slowly despite the quiver in her tone. “Don’t give up… do not give up on us. We’re not giving up on you, so don’t give up on us. Help us, Dwight.”

Dwight held his breath, his panicked mind finding a pause in the firm look in her eyes. “…okay.” Despite the drastic differences between then and now, Dwight shakily sat beside a surprised Jake and began to work on the generate. Though he was shaken, his hands worked carefully as he sifted through the dirty wires and separated the proper colors for Jake to work with. Together, and with Dwight’s organizing, they were working much quicker than usual.

“Glad you’re good for something,” Jake said.

“S-Sorry…”

“Just keep working,” Morgan said, the cold making her hands shake. In the distance, they heard a scream, Dwight jumping slightly and nearly tugging too tightly against the coils. Jake stabilized him, the former manager cowering behind the generator as Morgan snapped her head towards the direction. That sounded like Steve. On her feet, she fled towards the direction, despite the cries for her to return. Blood splattered on the ground, leading a trail towards one of the houses. Morgan followed up the stairs, her body shaking as she depended greatly on her senses. Her heartbeat wasn’t thrumming, and she couldn’t see the red flood lights of a killer’s eyes around the corner.

_Remember what Dwight said… this one is different._

Behind the wall she heard heavy breathing, the cries loud as they were struggling to muffle themselves. Inside a bare room, she saw Steve leaning against the wall, his hand pressing tightly over his bleeding stomach. Instantly, Morgan was kneeling at his side. “Shit, are you okay?”

“I… can’t really move anymore,” he mumbled, shaking tremendously in her hold. As she pressed the wound, Morgan quickly ushered him up and held him against her body. Steve was heavy, but she could manage. At the very least, he wasn’t huge like David or Jeff. “Where is he?” she asked shakily, their bodies making way towards the flight of stairs. Steve coughed, “I… don’t know. He just… cut me down and left me behind… didn’t hook me or anything.”

Odd, they always hooked when someone couldn’t move any longer. The blood gushed from his stomach, the viscera protruding beneath, and Steve pressed down harder despite the pain. As they reached the stairs, Morgan’s eyes widened in horror.

At the very bottom there stood a man, whose broad shoulders and towering form was topped with a face concealed completely by a white, blank mask. In his blood hand was that same kitchen knife, dripping with ruby red into a small puddle of the floor. He’d followed the trail, his breathing heavy but even. Morgan cursed under her breath, _He baited him? So they’re aware enough to strategize?_ Horror laced her eyes, her body backing up slowly as the figure only watched them with a curiously tilted head. Instantly, Morgan remembered who this was as Laurie’s words rang in her head.

_My brother… do **not** let him see you. He’ll keep following, and you won’t hear him until it’s too late._

She’d never met him, but she knew who he was, and almost instantly Morgan felt the dread, the **_hopelessness,_** weighing deeply in her heart. The very same that Dwight and Jake shared. She gripped tightly, frightfully against the injured Steve.

“…it’s Michael.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael is my killer main and Jeff is my survivor main :') sometimes I play my legendary Watermelon Dwight that oddly enough never died. Except in private games, I always play Quentin, because of an inside joke to my friends since I'm the only one that liked the Nightmare on Elm Street remake. 
> 
> Do you guys have a survivor/killer main? Who is it?


	6. Faced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something not intended for the public made it out into Olsen's latest front page article, and Morgan intends to give the cheeky writer a piece of her mind.

Chapter 6: Faced

There’d been a single long cloud that stretched across the sky. In the horizon it burst upward, like fresh cotton candy being pulled from the cone. Morgan stared for a long while, her eyes turning dry as the summer air blew upon her face—warm, hot, and sticky—and already she felt the sweat building up below her brows. It was early in the morning, though, maybe seven. She didn’t get all that much sleep last night on account of work.

The bodies of a middle-aged couple were found in their home, not because of a sighting, but because of an odor complaint. The horrible stench of rotting corpses was something certain people could get used to after a while. For Morgan, she’d experienced it plenty of times, but it didn’t mean she got a kick out of it in the slightest. She’d smelt roadkill during her morning jogs, or stumbled upon her neighbor’s cow that died along their fence line a couple times. The atrocious odor was great, but nothing compared to a rancid human corpse.

Let alone two.

The department was in a panic. Not solely because of the body count, but because of the small little camera Morgan and Joseph noticed in the top right corner of the living room where the bodies were sprawled, massacred. The owners had a security system. Joseph was quick to get the footage evaluated.

That was something outside of Morgan’s expertise, though, and as she pulled on a pair of shoes and had her gun strapped, concealed tight against her hip, she darted down the forest trail not far from her neighborhood. Bobbing and weaving into the patches of shade, she breathed heavily and deep, feeling the warm air and finding it pleasant to fill her lungs with. It was fresher than the city, which was polluted and almost stale, and though it was hot out she kept on pushing herself before the sun could peak above the tall pine trees. Half a mile down and she came to a stop, her thighs burning and her chest heaving for air. Morgan pressed a finger into her neck, counted the thrumming of her heart for six seconds.

230 beats per minute.

It was a good pace. Before, her heart would feel like exploding, but now she’d grown used to the sensation. Sooner than before her heartrate would come down, and she’d start again once it slowed to a normal 70. Lunging her head back, she stared up at the flock of Eurasian collared doves that fluttered across the opening into the bushels of pine leaves, her eyes stinging from sweat. A few locks were astray, standing and fuzzy from the humid air, and she slicked her hands over her tied back hair to attempt and flatten her cowlicks. Face flushed, Morgan lets out a hot, shaky breath and looked forward again.

It was quick, and if she weren’t such a keen person, she’d think it was her mind playing tricks on her. But she saw something dark shuffle from one side of the small trail to the other straight into the thicket of tall flora. Abruptly she held her breath, her brows pinching as she stared suspiciously at the direction. There were bears in the region, which was why she ran with bear spray, but the figure was silent. Quick. Too obtuse and cunning to be a big, burly black bear.

Reluctantly she took a couple steps forward, slow and steady in the hopes of catching a glimpse of whatever it was. Her pager, strapped to the band of her joggers, began to buzz. Morgan looked down to read the message.

_Need those pictures by noon. -Fields_

Another glance. Nothing could be seen out of the ordinary, but Morgan quickly turned her heel and made a brisk jog back home. Between 7:00 and 10:00 she managed to shower, drive down to the station and process the photographs of the crime scene. All the while her stomach grumbled, the sight of death no longer deterring her from a meal. Despite it being several hours since the recent crime, she still smelt the lingering stench of death deep in her nose. Morgan grimaced, contemplating using a netipot when she returned to her home. A few knocks on Joseph’s office and she earns a chaste response. It wasn’t as dull as one would expect. There were a few photos of loved ones, though seldom for security reasons. Some sports team memorabilia were pinned to the wall alongside pictures of his football days in college. A framed article of a few of his more noteworthy cases were up, though Joseph felt all cases were memorable. According to him, so long as someone got sacked for doing bad, then it was worth remembering. Even a child could notice Joseph was under a great amount of pressure. With eyes dark weary and his shoulders slumped as he assessed files and typed on his computer, he looked up at Morgan with the dullest of looks. The sight of her alone seemed to have brightened him up a tad. It was strange for Morgan, given her parcel was a photoshoot of dead bodies and nothing more.

“Give it here,” he said, his hands grabbing tightly to the folder before he splayed them across his desk. She’d seen him do it time and time again, about as much as she’d memorized the horrors of the pictures she’d taken, selected, fine-tuned, and processed.

“You look like shit,” she said, knowing damn well it was unprofessional. Yet Joseph and Morgan had known each other for a good long while, and she was certain she’d get away with it. As she’d judged, the smile on his face splayed out. It seemed like he needed that, in spite of the crude comment.

“As honest as ever I see,” he said, “I feel like it too. Haven’t slept much the whole week. Bastard’s taking more than lives.”

Hours—he’d been taking hours. And from many people. Police, detectives, family.

Morgan, even.

Tilting her head, she overviewed the information on the desk. The more important things weren’t really out, given she probably was permitted to see, but a printout covered by piles of notes and transcripts caught her eye. With careful hands Morgan shifted the papers away to reveal a rather disturbing picture. The victims were the very same as last night, however the picture wasn’t one of hers. It was a still picture of some footage, and in the center…

“Shit,” she said, staring at the masked man adorned in dark colors. The knife was down glistening by his side, a single hand giving a thumbs up towards the mounted camera, and his face was covered with a long, hideous mask. “You actually got a picture of him,” she said with surprise.

“Same guy, sleeves and all. No way to match the fabric with a picture but it’s painfully obvious. Crazy bastard saw he was caught on camera and just went with it,” Joseph’s voice dripped with disgust, “What I’d do to gun him down now, but that wouldn’t make me a fair cop would it?”

The longer Morgan looked at it, the more she felt her skin crawl. Posing so casually, like killing was nothing but a fun little hobby for this person. The way he carried himself with pride. The picture said much more than that for Morgan.

“I don’t think he was caught, I think he knew they had surveillance,” Morgan muttered, placing the picture back onto Joseph’s desk. He was listening intently.

“How can you be so sure about that?”

Morgan tapped her finger on the masked criminal, “Just look at him. Does that look like he was caught unawares? He’s obviously doing it on purpose.”

“To mock the police,” Joseph concluded.

“To get himself known. If this guy is premediating everything, yet the victims don’t have a correlation.”

Joseph leaned against his chair, his back popping, and it sounded painful. “The force’s considered that. Either way, he needs to get caught asap.” Gathering the pictures towards the side, Joseph took a gulp of his now cold brew before sighing. “You can go, Morgan. I’ll call you if something else comes up.”

She left, but not before giving the haunting picture one final glance.

For the next three days, it had been silent. Petty crimes and incidents had come up. Morgan’s only other job was for an overdose victim in their trailer. Otherwise, the strange masked killer had been lying and wait. Joseph had predicted another death within the week. That meant four more days of anxious waiting. The cops had been flooding the streets a little more intentionally now, especially at night. Morgan was sure to lock her windows when she slept now.

She was walking down the sidewalk, passing various stores, a hot black tea and cream in one hand and in the other…

…she wasn’t sure why she still had his card.

After parking her car she noticed it on the floor of her passenger’s side, left behind for days and forgotten. The number in red was carefully written, not haste at the slightest. It made Morgan a bit suspicious of his intentions. Besides, what normal guy carried around a red pen? It made more sense to her to have a black one. Then again, he was a reporter, and he wanted to be noticed and remembered. _Sure good at doing that,_ she thought, crumpling it up without a second thought before stuffing it into her pocket. She’d tossed it if the garbage cans weren’t overflowing along the streets. Downtown was always a bit nasty, with its palmetto bugs scurrying about the quite corners and the spilt drinks that began to reek like old food and vomit. But only a mile in from where she parked and it became nicer, with shopping plazas consisting of brand names and high-end hotels. There’d be an ATM every five-hundred feet and a Rolls Royce glistening in the sunlight clasped on certain passerby.

Morgan entered the grocery and purchased her week of food: bread and sandwich meats, more yellow sliced cheese, a ton of juice, fruit and veggies, and whatever thing on sale that caught her eyes for more than ten solid seconds. Three bags and a long walk back—a fancy way of saying an arm work out for Morgan—she stepped out of the cold airconditioned store to stop at the bright blue newspaper rack. Almost instantly she dropped her groceries when she read the headlines.

_"The Ghost Face Caught on Tape," by Jed Olsen_

Her hair stood at the sight—that awful masked man, with his thumb flicked up and the corpses coated in blood. Black and white, it was still disturbing to see. Around her, people held the latest paper, some bypassing the front but most staring with wide eyes. Whispers of terror, the fear building up in their eyes at such a disturbing sight. It’s as if the murders became far more noticeable, resurfacing from beneath their rugs after only hearing briefly about it in either radio stations or the morning news. Wide eyed, Morgan heard the comments.

_What the hell is this? Why did the press print this out? Do you think the police gave it?_

_How else would they have gotten this?_

_This is scary… no way am I sticking around at night._

_The cops here suck. How many people died to this? Bet you they’re too dumb to notice the evidence._

“Fucking asshole,” she hissed, reclaiming her things before quickly returning to her car.

Later that afternoon, she found herself sitting in wait. Admittedly, she wasn’t sure why she was there. A bit of her felt terrible for lying her way inside, all for the means of getting inside the very office she sat in, but it didn’t change the fire burning inside of her, a person who could otherwise care less about being involved in the drama. But she had to get inside, and telling the front desk for the Roseville Gazette that she _knew things about the Ghost Face murders_ was a quick ticket in. To be honest, she wasn’t expecting to be offered an instant meeting with the Chief Editor, but Morgan stopped them short.

_That’s not who I want to see._

And here she was, waiting, admittedly anxious. For some reason it was hot in the office, so she’d unbuttoned her shirt a tad to get some air. It wasn’t hard to tell that the guy was strange from the get-go. Seeing his officer, however, only confirmed it more. In all her times she’d stepped foot into a reporter’s domain, they always had pictures of their best articles hanging on the walls. Education and professional certificates would be pressed onto lacquered wood, their graduation photos mounted like a shrine to them and them alone. Yet, this office was plain, the fanciest thing being the golden name tag sitting lonely on the desk. An office plant was on the side—peace lilies—and there were a few little things here and there. Some books, like memoires of people she’d never heard of, and a collection of H.P. Lovecraft’s works. Morgan wasn’t expecting such a strange yet difficult author to read. From behind the closed curtains, Morgan prodded her fingers between to peak over by the front desk. This time around, she caught her target entering the building with a thermos of coffee and leather briefcase in hand. He’d been stopped by the clerk, who exchanged very few words with him before Morgan saw the glint of light in her eyes. Almost instantly he was racing for his office. When she expected the door to fly open, it instead popped with a pleasant squeak. The man walked in professionally, that _horrible_ smile revealing his painfully perfect teeth on his face.

“Well, hello there, I wasn’t expecting a surprise visitor.”

But then he noticed _who_ it was, and in the short moment his face became shock, the smile only returned. Except it was different. This time, it wasn’t fake like before, but something about it she couldn’t put a finger on. Like he’d been waiting so long yet was expecting her to be there one day.

And that day had finally come.

“An _honored_ guest, too…”

“Save me the bullshit and close the door.”

Regardless of her rudeness he was still smiling, his door shutting, and when Morgan shut the blinds for _that_ too, she swore she heard his heart beating quicker. Jed Olsen snickered as he wiggled his brows, “Like it _real_ private, don’t you?”

“Don’t get excited. You’re only going to get very disappointed.”

Placing his things down he sat down on his seat, a leather one but not overbearingly large like the one in the chief editor’s office. With his hands on the desk he leaned forward, the sparkle in his eyes making Morgan want to vomit. “C’mon, I’m a very hard man to disappoint. Besides, I’m only happy to see you again. I was getting a bit worried that you wouldn’t call me.” Jed adjusted his tie, his smirk dangerous yet charming looking, as a reporter always should look. “You went all the way to come see me instead. I’m flattered, really.”

Morgan rolled her eyes, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. For some reason she felt vulnerable, perhaps because she was wearing civilian clothes. Perhaps because she always felt naked without her precious camera to hide behind. “I’m here for business and business alone.”

“Of course! Let me just get my recorder from my bag.”

“ **No** recorder,” she interjected, and he abruptly stopped.

“Oh, no problem. I can totally work with paper and pencil.”

“Not that either,” she said, a bit more bitterly than she intended, but she couldn’t help how annoyed she was. Jed rose a brow, his smiling shrinking a bit. “Okay… so, my memory isn’t **_that_** amazing.”

“I’m not here to give you _juicy details_. I’m here to ask you a question.”

A bit stumped, Jed slowly adjusted himself straight, his body leaning back and leg folding over the other. From behind the desk she could see his caramel leather shoe twisting as he thought, his tongue running over his pristine teeth. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I am in fact single.”

Morgan chose to ignore that. “Where did you get the picture.”

“Picture?”

“Your latest headline, Olsen. The photograph of that wanted criminal.”

He smiled, “Call me Jed.”

“ ** _Where_**.”

The man’s fingers drummed on his desk, the chortle escaping him like a naught kid who got caught doing something bad, and not even caring in the least bit. But he looked her in the eyes, the drumming ceasing as he decided to take her just a tad bit more seriously. “A source. I know someone who had possession of them.” A bit impatient with how coy he was being, Morgan’s nose wrinkled with annoyance. Unfortunately, seeing her do that made Jed’s smirk grow a bit cheekier. “Like a cop?”

“A _person,_ and that’s all I’m saying.”

Dear lord, she hated him. So much she wanted to punch him. But Morgan was smarter than letting her heart take the lead. She wouldn’t give in to such rash behavior, so instead she grunted in response and bit down hard on her lash-craving tongue.

“I get how reporters are. Always wanting to get the best headline, put your name out there, get that nice office with a bigger cut so you can buy a better car and fancy watch. But what you did was sick. Those were people you put all over the paper. Dead bodies that you desecrated.”

Stuck with shock, his eyes were wide as places and his smile momentarily gone. “I wasn’t expecting you to be the sentimental type, Miss Yoon.”

“I’m a human being, not emotionless. I gotta stay firm to do my job. I see families fall apart, and the senseless things mankind does in spite, or for greed, or for **fun.** I’m no psychologist or cop. I take pictures of their dead loved ones. Being a decent person is all I can do for them.” Morgan stood up, her bottom feeling sweaty from all the time she’d spent waiting. Jed stared after her. “I’m not expecting you to understand where I’m coming from. I can’t change people. I just wanted to let you know that you’re an asshole.”

Going for the door, Jed seemed to be struggling with his thoughts before he suddenly jumped up. Just as she opened the door, he pressed firmly against it, slamming it shut. Morgan jumped, and she worried that people outside would get the wrong idea. He was smiling, a bit of sweat forming on his forehead as he rubbed the small hairs lining his square jaw. “Wait, wait, wait. I don’t want you leaving with that kind of impression.”

“Your papers speak for yourself, Mr. Olsen.”

“C-Call me Jed. Um… let me reword it. I realize now where you are coming from,” he admitted, his arm leaning against the door at he stared down at her. Morgan wasn’t so tall—perhaps 5’4” at the most—while Jed was well near six feet. She could smell his deodorant, which wasn’t too overwhelming but rather pleasant. The man had subtle dimples when he smiled, but now his face was drastically different. Serious, earnest, and he seemed as if he was trying to make up for everything. Morgan fervently doubted that.

“I had my hands on police property and put it out into the public. It probably makes the cops look bad and… made your job a lot harder and I’m sorry. Sincerely I am. I just… wanted to let people know. I wanted to expose the truth. I’m a reporter for a reason, it’s in my nature.”

“You exposed a truth that the public wasn’t ready for. You threw them a hard ball and now everyone’s scared shitless.” Leaning a bit in, Morgan lowered her voice in case a record was going off—or incase anyone could hear. Jed shifted a bit at how close she was.

“You don’t understand killers like I do. Some of them love to be noticed, and from what I can tell you just gave this psycho a whole lot of publicity, and he’s loving it. How do you expect to take responsibility for that?” she whispered, harshly, and it didn’t take a genius to know how livid she was. Nostrils flared, Jed cursed under his breath and bit his lip. A hand brushed back at his brown locks, which seemed a bit messy like he’s rolled out of bed and gelled it. Looking at her with crystal blue eyes he shook his head and shrugged, the smile completely gone. There was remorse in his face.

“… I don’t know. All I can say is that I won’t do it again.”

It was her turn to smirk, a cruel chuckle rattling her ribcage, “You expect me to believe that?”

“I mean it! I won’t do it again. Unfortunately, all you’ve got in my word.”

Honestly, she wasn’t expecting that. Neither was she expecting much. The man was strange, to say the least, but she didn’t want to give him the opportunity to disappoint her otherwise. Reaching up, she adjusted his terribly crooked tie and fixed the knot a bit. Jed looked startled, his eyes dancing with some sort of emotion that Morgan felt better to have him not disclose.

“We’ll see,” she said frankly, gently pushing him up against the wall. She could feel his heart beating wildly, but that bewildered look of his became disappointment when she opened the door once he was fully out of the way. Dumbfounded, he stared after her retreating form.

“… Morgan!” he called, tailing her even though they’d been earning strange glances. She was quick to exit, not wanting anyone to remember or recognize her. Already, she was outside in the blazing sun.

“Morgan, wait!”

“Nope.”

“Hey,” he was suddenly in front of her, only feet from the entrance to the Roseville Gazette. Anxiously she looked around, paranoid that someone was snapping photos of them talking. Like hell she was going to be blamed for the evidence leak.

“Let me make it up to you?”

“If this is another attempt get info out of me you are sorely, sorely mistaken, Mr. Olsen.”

And then he held a finger up towards her lips, his eyes glistening and smirk back. Confused, it took her a solid three seconds to understand what he was asking for. “… we are _not_ on a first name basis, nor will we ever be.”

“Please? If you go to lunch with me once I will never bother you again. No work, no talk of crime scenes or Ghost Face or any of it. Just you, me, and some awesome dinner. Any diets or food restrictions, allergies?”

“I don’t bribe,” she said, but he was already taking out a notepad to scribble something down.

With a **_red_** pen.

“No,” she urged, “No, no. I’m not going anywhere with you.” The page was placed in her hands, and she looked to see a time and address written crudely on it. Again, she was nodding, an estranged smile pulled on her face at how bold and idiotic this man was.

Red-faced, Morgan stared up at him incredulously. “I’m throwing this away.”

“Please don’t. Is that a good time for lunch?”

She paused, “ ** _Throwing_** it, do you understand me?”

Clicking his teeth, he only grinned down at her fuming form. Morgan rolled her eyes, the paper crumpling in her hand, and she turned to make her leave. “I’ll see you later, then?” Huffing, she stuffed the paper in her pocket along with his card and refused to look back at him. Her head was beating with pain as a small migraine began to surface. With a deep breath she dared to glance around her shoulder. He was still there, watching her, and for a split second she saw his expression.

Dull, distant, lifeless: like a corpse.

And in the blink of an eyes he was smirking and waving again, like a clueless fool and nothing more. Morgan’s faced cringed, her eyes rolling, and she beelined straight for her car. Her walk was, admittedly, faster than she anticipated it to be.

She’d feel better after taking a huge nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awe, Jed is such a social butterfly. 
> 
> I'm a very extroverted person, so when people said they couldn't stand when someone's like that, I cried a little inside (jk friends I didn't take personally). In other news I finally played against my first Ghostface on xbox. So fun, but he didn't use his ability which was sort of a shame. No surprise it was a face camper. The two randoms DCed, and he hated me since I ran him around for a good while. He was the teabag, I was the cup. Needless to say we all died. Gaming life can be hard sometimes. 
> 
> QUESTION of the CHAPTER: Out of all the killers in the Dead By Daylight franchise, which is your least favorite to go up against? Lately I've been finding so many demogorgons, which aren't so bad in the low ranks. Personally I cannot stand playing against the Clown (he's fast) or the Hag (so many darn Hexes).


	7. Morale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After that trial, Morgan feels like she's on to something. There's little information on escape, but far more on the thing that brought them there. To Morgan, knowledge is power. To get rid of a problem, one must start at the root of it all. Morgan aims to stunt the Entity directly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Ghostface is coming up very soon. I can feel it in me bones. Happy New Years as well, friends!

She knew what Dwight meant.

Before, she couldn’t feel it, when he was slow, and the deadly glow hadn’t been casting from his eyes. When he was far too difficult for the untrained ear to hear, and the unprepared eye to see, and the ill experienced to sense, as Laurie shakily warned her that one night. The last night she’d seen her. Morgan heeded her words, especially after feeling how tight of a grip she gave her wrist. But to be prepared against something like this?

It was impossible.

Steve had taken the initiative in pushing Morgan out the second story window, his screams piercing the night air as Morgan stood in the backyard with pleading eyes. One second, she was looking up at him, ordering him to jump while reassuring that she would, in fact, catch him. She had strong legs and decent arms. Her back could use more work, but she was certain she could catch him. But as he leaned against the window frame swaying, she saw a knife break through his chest. Blood rained down, splattering on her pale face, and as Morgan winced at the invasion of warm liquid into her eyes, she looked up to see the blood splaying across the white windowsill.

There was no sign of Steve or Michael.

After that, she ran. She ran, and ran, and it took everything in her to not scream. It wasn’t long until she felt the rattling of her heartbeat, as if she was suffering from a heart attack, suddenly while working on a generator with the anxious Dwight. He began to panic, fleeing off into the streets with his voice crying out into the crisp air. Morgan reacted far too slow, her legs shaking when she barely jumped away from the bloody knife. Michael’s arms were soaked in red, his mask freckled with blood much like Morgan’s was. His breathing was louder, deeper, his movements faster and far more urgent as he pursued her cowering form. Shakily she reached up, her hands splayed before her, and to her surprise the enormous man halted. With the pain that was in her chest, she was struggling to breath.

“Michael, you’re Michael, right?” she stuttered. As the horrible man tilted his head, she took a gulp and attempted to reason with him. “Your sister. I know your sister. I know Laurie.”

Something about him changed. The way he held his knife was tighter, his breathing stopping for just a small fraction of a second. Morgan whimpered, “Wait, please, try and remember. Think for yourself, you don’t have to kill us, right? Something’s making you do this. It’s that thing. That _thing_ took you and it’s making you do this,” but as she struggled to speak, the killer slashed forward. Gashes were dug into both of her palms, the flesh split and searing with a pain Morgan had never felt before. Instantly she fell down, her voice cracking and hands quaking with a horrible, horrible pain. Michael was nearing her, his blade reading to collapse down against her vulnerable body. Through the increasing anguish, Morgan dug her fingers around her camera, the touch slippery, and pressed down on the shutter button. It flashed, snapping a photo of the approaching killer, and in his momentary blindness he lets out a vicious cry. His hand slashed furiously before him, blade searching hungrily for her flesh. In a panic, she scrambled to her feet and ran off into the darkness.

As she turned the corner, a pair of arms wrapped around her waist. Morgan screamed, her eyes flowing with fresh tears, and upon seeing Dwight she seemed to have cried harder. He was obviously frightened, but in his fear, he removed his tie and started to wrap it around the gaping wound in her right hand. Morgan winced, her breathing reaching a dangerous crescendo as he stuttered to speak to her.

“Shhh, shhh, be quiet, it’s okay, you’re okay,” he was fumbling, the fright evident in his hands quaking and the bones rattling beneath his skin.

“M-My hands are…!”

“It’s fine it won’t last! It wont I promise,” he reassured, glancing around the corner quickly. Rubbing her one wrapped palm, he attempted to sooth her ache as he thought for some time. “Um… I-I think we finished two generators… where’s Steve?”

“H-He’s… I don’t know. I didn’t see that… thing take him away… into the sky… fuck! It hurts,” Morgan seethed, watching the blood pool into the grass below. Dwight shuddered, “Sometimes they kill… hook or not. Not all the time. I… some of us think there’s some sort of condition that has to be met but…”

Though he was talking, Morgan had a hard time deciphering his words. The pain was far too immense for her to concentrate. Suddenly, their heat beats began to race, Morgan’s eyes widening with pain as she rubbed the unbearable thrumming in her chest. “Shit… shit he’s coming!” No, Morgan wasn’t sure if she could move. Legs shaky, she leaned against the wall and felt her lungs struggling for air. Rubbing her shoulders, Dwight looked at her behind foggy glasses, his expression wincing as he anticipated what’s to come. “I’ll… distract him so you… so you go and r-run, okay?” She was shaking her head, not wanting in the least bit to be alone, but Dwight was already gone. Tripping over his own feet and breathing loudly, purposefully frightening the birds Jake had warned her so much about and screaming with a high pitch cry. Around the corner she saw Michael pursue him. Mortified, Morgan winced at the sound of Dwight’s fearful cry. Morgan stumbled away, her legs carrying her slow but far.

At one point, the screaming reached a peak before falling silent.

Morgan was certain he was dead.

“What do I do?” she mumbled, hands unable to work with the generator properly. Pulses of pain shot up her arms, making her shoulders squeeze inward as she shivered. “I-I can’t do three… can I?” She then remembered Jake. Where was he, why couldn’t she hear him? Regardless, Morgan continued to work on her generator, the progress slow but steady. A few minutes after Dwight’s silence had passed. Every so often she looked behind her shoulder to see any signs of a white, haunting face. It wasn’t until she faced forward again did she see him—Michael—watching her from behind a hedge only a few yards away. Startled, she felt her fingers slip, the generator letting out a loud boom. With newfound energy she raced off into the darkness, bobbing and weaving around the fences and picnic tables until Morgan skidded to a stop just behind a park bench. Whimpers hiccup out of her, her vision blurry with tears.

“Psst.”

Hairs stood on the back of her neck, but she saw the source and felt a bit of relief. Jake was hiding by the strange brick wall, a tall tree concealing his folded form as he sat on the ground. Carefully she assessed their surroundings before darting to him. He was hurt, which surprised her, given he was so quiet. Blood flowed from his gut, his eyes squeezed shut when she helped put pressure on the wound. It was like Steve all over again.

“H-He got you too,” she said, watching the color drain from his tanned skin. Jake was breathing heavily.

“Don’t think I’m gonna make it… find the hatch,” he said, and Morgan had to think for a moment on what he meant. Remembering Baker’s journal, he spoke briefly of it. A mysterious door that would only show up when all but one had died.

“I’m not gonna leave you.”

“I only have a few minutes left. Just go find it.”

Morgan thought, “But… what do I do if Michael finds it first?”

Considering her question, Jake gagged with pink shaded teeth before looking at the camera around her neck. “Give that to me,” he urged, and reluctantly she handed it to him. It was heavy with one hand, but Jake seemed to have managed. Tilted his head back against the wall, he took in a deep breath before urging her away. “Go, I’ll distract him.”

“… this won’t happen next time, I promise,” she stood up before striding off into the fog. From her peripheral she could see a repeating flash of light, her camera’s brightness shining so obviously from Jake’s hiding spot. Morgan began to look desperately for the hatch.

Suddenly, Jake’s agonizing voice boomed into the still air.

Many crows fluttered away, her body hitting the ground hard as she slipped on the dew. Biting down hard on her tongue, Morgan suppressed her tears and pushed herself up. The cold was aching at her knuckles, the blood loss making her head dizzy. Without her camera, she felt vulnerable. Naked even. It wouldn’t save her, not for now. _The journal said it would open when I’m alone… that I would hear it. But what does it sound like?_ Morgan cried, her body seizing from the sheer terror alone. She’d yet felt the heartbeat of the killer since Dwight. So many people died tonight saving her.

The least she could do was not make it all in vain.

But Morgan didn’t even know what she was looking for. The fog seemed thicker than usual. It was difficult to see through, and for some reason she felt she was underwater. Her perception was off, her mind spinning. Soon, she’d collapse from lightheadedness and be a sitting duck. _No, don’t. Don’t even think about that. You gotta go Morgan. Don’t give up… hope…. Hope. Don’t give up hope. Don’t let it take it away from you!_ Because that’s was the journal said. That’s what it did, right?

It feasted on her hope and replaced it with despair.

Shaking her head, Morgan took her fists and dug them deep, prodding into her sore cheeks. There, she had to get a hold of herself there and then. Opening her eyes, she looked left, and then right. The police lights were flashing in the distance, a false beacon of salvation. She’d never stepped foot near those cars ever since Jake warned her. Against her better judgement, she attempted to approach the center of the street, rounding trash cans and mailboxes as sad excuses for cover. Within just feet of the unit cars, she heard something deep and moaning. Like a hollow, endless cave that spiraled into earth’s core. A noise she’d never heard before and greatly frightened her at first.

“… there,” she sighed, falling on her hands and knees before a smoking hatch that was wide open. A cold air was rushing out, the smell of burning wood like a bonfire escaping the dark, endless void that it led to. Morgan’s stomach sank. _This_ was her salvation? It didn’t seem that way. Even though she didn’t want to believe it, there weren’t many other options. Slowly Morgan slipped one leg in, and then two. It was cold and empty inside with no bottom being seen. She doubted there was one. Afraid of falling endlessly, she began to reconsider and tried crawling back out. Heavy feet made her head jerk upward, the sight of Michael exiting a nearby house making Morgan gasp. He noticed her, his legs moving him forward so fast. Faster than before. The red-light flooding from his eyes blinded her, her arms grasping the side of the hatch for dear life as she watched with doe-like eyes her end nearing her. Just when he was within arm’s reach, Morgan shut her eyes tight and let herself fall.

Down, down, into the darkness. She wanted to scream, but she didn’t even have the energy to do so.

She could only hope she didn’t feel the impact when she reached a ground, if there was one.

The first thing she felt was a large, heavy palm smacking straight into her chest. With a sharp gasp she had awoken, her eyes rearing back all ugly and wide while her breath hitched deep inside her throat. It hurt—damn it hurt—and she swore it was a hammer falling right onto her chest. But once she sat up, she felt an arm rubbing her back. It was Steve, reassuring to her that everything was alright. In an instant she surveyed his body, seeing he was all healed and okay. Steve was alive. By the tree line was Jake, sitting against a decrepit pine with his arms folded over his chest and his eyes shut peacefully. Dwight had been chattering nonsense to her: apologies and thank goodnesses and some more apologies.

“D-Did you get out? Did he get you? When Jake showed up and you didn’t… I-I just knew he died too. It woulda been your first…” Dwight trailed off, more than likely thinking of his own first, terrible, gruesome demise. Much to his relief, Morgan shook her head.

“Lucky as hell, I’ll say,” David said, his palm spread open wide, and it took her a moment to realize that it was him who struck her awake, “You used the hatch.”

She felt her skin shiver, “It… it was cold… I thought I was going to die in there.” For a moment, they seemed content. Though they didn’t live through it, the thought of at least someone getting out made them feel eased. Perhaps it was for bitter reasons. Killers that couldn’t get the last kill probably grew frustrated, or maybe were punished for it, and that made people like Jake, Nea, and King happy. Meanwhile, there are others who would do anything to save someone. People like Claudette, or Jeff, and Dwight. The group was changed: Morgan was surprised to see everyone from the previous trial turn out in the same place. A breath she’d been holding flushed from her burning lungs. After reading the journal, she’d worried that Dwight wouldn’t have made it back to the campfire.

After all, he seemed so hopeless.

She’d asked him a bit about how he was feeling. _“I don’t know how to describe it… I’ve been here for so long. I should be used to it, you know? B-But lately I haven’t been getting away, and when that starts happening I just… wish I wouldn’t wake up again. Wish I’d just never wake up… I-I was really scared, I always am. I’m a coward, but I wasn’t really being myself…”_

That’s what he’d said. By the fire Morgan sat, the pages of the book dirtied and dried up, the stench of clay and swamp water emanating from the grungy old pages. Husks, shells of their former selves. Hollowed out and left to remain, without any more purpose to the **_Entity_** , whatever the hell it really was. Husks, because they had no more hope, but what did that mean? Finding the meaning meant reaching for a solution. Another glance towards Dwight: he looked shaken up, but had a bit of life to him that he didn’t when Morgan had first arrived. Ironically, after she’d tried and talk some sense into him during her last trial. It’d been hours since then. People have come and go, including Steve, but Jake and Dwight were still around. Some chords were being strung behind her. Kate was playing her guitar some random chords and nothing in particular. She looked all melancholy, like everyone else. Morgan thought some more about what Dwight said.

_Lately I haven’t been getting away... wish I wouldn’t wake up again… I wasn’t really being myself._

Even she was terrified, on the verge of giving up just before she'd found the hatch. “Hope… they turned to husks without hope… useless to it. It refers to the Entity I presume,” Morgan muttered, and to anyone else it would sound like crazy talk. They all knew she’d been engrossed in the book. At one point, each of them tried deciphering it’s meaning but to no avail. The most interested outside of Morgan was Adam and Nancy, and even then, they felt themselves run into dead ends. Beside her, Adam—who showed up randomly from the forest a while back—was jogging some thoughts in her brain.

“Think of the context to what’s written. Baker wrote that whoever goes to the Void are husks: soulless, lifeless, their former selves. Obviously, it’s some sort of place, maybe even a dimension. Perhaps it’s entailing people who are broken. Psyche’s thoroughly damaged,” Adam suggested. Morgan only shook her head in disagreement.

“Everyone here is like that, Adam. In my last trial, Dwight was barely holding together. Bill had to stop him from killing himself in the past. If that were the case then he wouldn’t be here anymore,” she responded, trying to keep that bit of information a little hushed. “I’m trying to understand why we aren’t there yet. In the Void.”

“In the journal he keeps mentioning hope,” he explained, but Morgan only shrugged. “What’s it supposed to mean then?”

“Take it for what it is. Hope is aspiration. It’s looking forward towards something. People giving up… they’ve lost that, they aren’t themselves anymore. When I moved to Japan to work, I heard stories of people who suddenly disappeared. There's a forest where people use to kill themselves when life got too hard; Aokigahara. When people just want to give up, not try anymore, some ended up going there to die,” Adam explained coldly.

Morgan’s cold fingers wrapped around her lips, the cords of Kate’s guitar drifting through the air a lowly tune. Her eyes stung from the ash flying in the air. “People who run out of hope are useless to it,” she contemplated, “they run out of hope, they end up in the Void, right?”

“That’s what seems to be the case,” Adam said, and they earn an annoyed groan from Ace, who’d been trying to doze off cozily by the fire.

“What’s it matter? There’s nothing we can do about it,” Ace grumbled.

Morgan snapped her fingers, catching Adam’s attention fully. “Level with me here. It throws us out when we’re out of hope. Dwight said that every time he dies, he feels like he’s losing himself. What if… what if that’s when it takes it? When we’re sacrificed?”

“Maybe he’s losing hope because he’s fucking dying over and over again,” Ace grimaced, “Ever thought of that, Einstein?”

Morgan interjected, “Look at animals. If a hunter misses a vital shot, the deer starts running away even with a bullet in its back. There's no reasoning with instincts; outside of mental factors, everything has a will to live. If that’s what it eats—feasts off—and there’s none left behind, it explains why it doesn’t need us anymore if that will’s gone.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

Biting her finger in thought, she finally picked up on the tune that Kate was strumming. Wide eyed, she turned around to look at the young instrumentalist, her dirtied fingers running along the neck of the guitar to press down chords. Only, they weren’t random.

“That's Lynyrd Skynyrd,” Morgan said, catching the blond girl’s attention. She blinked surprised, given she never took the usually quiet, serious Morgan as the music type. “You like rock?” she asked with a sideways smile.

“I do,” Morgan said. When was the last time she’d thought about music? It’d been so long since she even thought of a song she enjoyed. With curiosity, Morgan looked around the camp to see that most of the survivors had drew nearer the fire. Ever since Kate had showed up and started strumming her guitar. Had it been purposeful, or subconscious.

“Do you know _Sweet Home Alabama_?” Morgan asked. Despite the forlorn look on Kate’s face, she began to play it, her wiry smile forming along her pale face. The strung were plug with fluid grace, the familiar song making the weight fly from her chest just a bit. As the musician started mouthing the song, Morgan began singing it without a second thought. It was something she normally wouldn’t do, never thought of doing. To sing in front of random strangers, to be sociable and optimistic.

“ _Big wheels keep on turning~. Carry me home to see my kin~._ You know this song, Ash?”

The cool man cladded in blue and belts kicked his boots back to lean against the fallen log. “What’s it to ya, sister? Does it look like I’m in the mood to sing?”

“Nobody is, that’s why we’ve got to liven things up a bit.” Morgan looked down to Adam, his eyes dancing with disturbed curiosity. He was obvious embarrassed to be sitting so close to all the commotion. “I want to test something, trust me, will you?”

Damn, he really didn’t want to, but the scholarly man bit his pride and started clapping his hands to the tune. Yeah, he knew this song. Most of everyone there should have known it. With no one around asleep, Morgan hollered people closer to the fire. Nea and Feng came first, King had stopped his bickering and kept throwing rocks into the hot logs, his gravely voice muttering the familiar lyrics. Ash was loud and brazen, enjoying the familiar tunes of what he claimed to be his golden days. He was howling out, his hot breath turned like smoke into the freezing air, “Sweet home Alabama! Where the skies are so blue! Girl can rock, I didn’t know that,” he’d grinned to Kate, who’s feet was bouncing and eyes sparkling some bright shade of ocean blue. Not dull like they used to be. The girls were bobbing their head, patting their thighs, watching the fire pop, and even Jake who sat the furthest was drumming his fingers to the beat. For a second, it felt like a normal camping trip. Dwight was reluctant, but as Morgan patted the spot beside her, she placed a hand on his back and patted away the tension.

“Sing, no one’s going to judge you.”

“I-I don’t know the lyrics.”

“So? Hum it, sing the chorus, bob your head. Enjoy it.”

So he did, rigid and gingerly, but as the seconds passed, Dwight did something he hadn’t done in a while. He was sort of, and very subtly, leaning against Nea who’d been swaying into him.

“Morgan,” Adam whispered, “This is nice and all, but our discussion.”

“This is the discussion,” she insisted, the group together now as they began to decide what song to sing next. After some deliberation, Kate began to place some Elvis Presley tunes. “If we started doing things like this, then we have something to look forward to.”

“… do you really think singing around a campfire is going to restore hope?”

“No, but it’s a start,” she mumbled, her cold hands wrapping tightly around her camera. It brought her some comfort. “It’s a long shot, but if hope is what it wants, we just gotta make sure we don’t run out. Maybe cut out its supply if there’s a way.”

“Cut out its supply…? I don't understand. What are you planning, Morgan? The journal doesn't say anything on this,” Adam asked. Morgan listened to the familiar chorus of some song, her eyes spotting a small smile forming over Dwight’s lips. He wasn’t as pale anymore. She was getting a good feeling about this. She was sure to whisper to him.

“I'm adding to it. No matter what, this has to be a group effort. We need everybody in on it. I'm only assuming this is going to help."

"Morgan... there isn't enough evidence. We can't be rash," Adam nearly choked. "Think about it Adam, the Entity wants hope. Predict how it gets it, and then we keep it from claiming anymore." She leaned back against the log behind her and clapped along with the music, adding to the festivities regardless of the malice she had raging inside of her heart. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he was surprised at the fact that everyone had submitted so willingly to partaking. It'd been so long since they enjoyed anything aside from the few hours of frightening sleep and the soft twigs they'd find to stomach. Morgan hissed one last statement before she started singing herself, "We know more about **_it_ **than we do about escaping. Let's work with what we have then. We’re going to find out how to _starve_ it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morgan's making a stretch goal, but they don't really have much to work with huh? I'd say she's always been smart, but in a place where there's no rules to go by, she's chosen to be a bit more reckless given dying isn't an escape anymore. 
> 
> QUESTION OF THE CHAPTER: What's your LEAST favorite map? I do NOT like the Demogorgon map at all. When my buddies and I play private lobbies, we always end up last one having to hatch their way out. Always. But since the last time I played they hadn't released it for online multiplayer yet, I'd say my current least favorite is Gideon. I enjoy playing on it for the lols, but I've always felt that the first floor had too little of cover.


	8. Casserole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last time Morgan's ever been to a dinner date was... she couldn't begin to remember. Once there, she can't help but second guess herself. Why did she bother going?

It was unbecoming for Morgan. Fingers sluggishly diving into her pants pockets, she retrieved the little note and read through the briskly written red letters. A pang of unsureness vortexed in her swelling heart. For some unknown reason she wanted to vomit. Her insides were twisting that much. Not even Creedence Clearwater Revival was soothing the ghastly _what ifs_ clouding her mind. Morgan turned down the volume and heard the underlying static of total silence. She didn’t really want to do this.

Probably because she hadn’t stepped foot in someone else’s house in ages. Mom and dad lived back in Wisconsin, her sister worked for water management over in California, where everything caused cancer. Friends… well, Morgan didn’t really have any. Coworkers, yes, and colleagues too. Another look at her face in the mirror, and she didn’t know why, but she’d put on eyeliner before leaving home. Not that anyone would notice—her eyes were hooded, thanks to her dad’s oriental genes.

The house wasn’t awfully big. Something small, maybe 800 square feet, with walls once white yet now browned from the elements. There wasn’t much grass. Mulch filled up a bed where plants would have looked nice in, and the path leading to the backyard was nothing but a strip of gravel colored like burnt caramel. The house number remained shiny and brass. Outside was a white sedan. No signs of roommates. Morgan sucked her tongue in her mouth.

Her line of work made her such a paranoid person. She’d brought her gun, had her pepper spray. Fuck tasers, she’d seen them not work against people one’d least expect to be a threat. She should have been smarter, though, and let people know where she went. Then again, he invited her out in the open. There was no effort to hide his relations with her. Plus, she’d left a note in her personal computer where Joseph’s new the password. Knocking with slow, lazy, heavy bangs, she felt as if she’d signed away some of her dignity. If there was any left, at least. The call behind it was sharp, punctual, excited.

“Give me a second!”

Fuck, and already was she regretting it. Had it been something about him that drew her here? Maybe, or perhaps it was just sheer curiosity on what a scummy journalist’s house looked like. Did it have his achievements hanging on the walls? Did he have dozens of copies of his articles lying about the counters, with his degrees and rewards and letters of recommendations? Maybe his office was so quaint and boring because he had everything waiting here for when he’d get a bigger one. And Morgan was sure of it—he did his job well, after all.

“Almost done!”

 _Shit, he’s singing,_ she grumbled to herself at the sound of his boastful humming from somewhere in his house. _Why the fuck am I here?_ Maybe, just maybe, she really took up on his bribe. Maybe his promise to never waste a breath towards her vicinity again was enough for her to give into the temptation. _Ugh,_ she even wore eyeliner. Damn, did she feel dirty. Almost whorish for some reason. It’d been too long since she brushed up on the socializing department. Sometimes the station had parties: she never went. Once in a while her family held a huge holiday bash, where even her cousins went. Plane tickets were too expensive, plus she didn’t want an excuse to buy gifts. The most socializing she got were the occasional trips to the bar for some liquid bread, and even then, she must have seemed to mopey to pass on as approachable.

When the door opened— _finally_ —she smelt something actually pleasant. First it was the cooking, like cheese and meat and mashed potatoes. Beneath the surprisingly appealing aroma she sensed the undernotes of something not so much palatable, yet still stimulating. Forest greens and freshly cut down pine trees; that’s what it made her think of. It took Morgan a few seconds to realize that it was coming off _him._ Jed was grinning, maybe a little too widely, and she couldn’t figure out why. A deadpan was on her face. She could feel it, all tense and stiff. He was wearing just a normal cottony shirt of crimson red—that looks too soft—with blue jeans. His bare feet sunk into the plush carpet. He was the type of guy to where his watch facing the inner part of his arm, and that bothered her even more.

“Welcome, my highly _esteemed_ guest.”

Shit, and could he get any cheesier? The smile he wore made the back of her neck tickle, and she wasn’t so stupid that she’d made herself dumbstruck. It was obvious to her why. The guy was handsome, and he knew how to use it. A dry grunt rumbled from her throat. Morgan entered the home, blasted by the cool air and the smell of lavender.

“Hope you didn’t get lost, then again you’re probably great at finding places last moment. What with your job and all, right?”

“You could say that,” Morgan, though obviously disliking everything about him, didn’t always deem it necessary to be an absolute shrewd. Jed smiled at that—smiled so wide it made her skin crawl—and with a snap of his finger he turned to retreat to where the smell of food was crawling out of. “Oh, let me check on dinner really quick, sorry! Want anything to drink?”

Eyes looked around the living room. Odd, it was so… dull. Normal. She didn’t want to accept it at first. Despite it being cold, Morgan removed her coat and held tightly onto it. A lone chair sat in the middle of the carpeted floor—sort of like a laze-boy—with a footrest and a television against the wall. Little tables, light fixtures, and random potted plants accented here and there. One would expect such a place belonging to a single man in his thirties. Damn, was she actually disappointed at how ordinary he was? Would she rather be stumbling into a douchebag’s house?

“What do you have to offer?” she asked.

“Water—the finest of filtered, of course—juice—from the most excellent of fruit—undoubtedly, milk—2%, because I like the blue caps better than the red ones…” she wasn’t biting, and Jed bit his lip. “Uhh, I’ve also got some IPAs.”

“Bottled?” she asked, and he uttered some response that probably meant yes. Morgan stalked around the home, seeing some pictures of random people. She presumed them to be family. “… give me that. Don’t bother opening it,” she said. There was a chipper tone to Jed’s words.

“Huh? You sure?”

“Positive.”

Because bottled meant he couldn’t slip a drug into it. _Fuck, I’m so depressing._ She’d grown fixated on a photo of a young boy on a tire swing. He was cute, with a brown bowl cut and fringes. In seconds Jed was beside her, a cold one between his thick fingers, and just then Morgan realized how big his hands were. _He could break a neck with those,_ she thought.

“How are you going to open it?” he asked. Morgan gave him an incredulous look, taking the slick bottle from his grip before angling it against his rather nice table. The cap popped off, and she left it there on the grey surface before taking a sip. Jed looked speechless.

“Marble’s tough, isn’t it?” she said. He’d gone from surprised to laughing, albeit the delay between was a little awkward for her to handle. Then again, it probably wasn’t often he had a guest who was too willing to defile his furniture in front of him. “A woman after my own heart!” Sick of the snappy comments, she lets it slide and let her lips smack. It was bitter and citrussy, just how she liked it.

“For a prominent figure in town you have a rather dull place.”

Huh, everything she said sounded so insulting. Maybe she really was rusty as talking now. But Jed—lucky for her—was either masochist or that damn social. She wasn’t sure which she’d prefer, but he didn’t give her much time to ponder it as he was already beelining for the kitchen. There was a round table there by the window where two seats, plates, and all were prepared for them. Morgan didn’t even let herself get surprised. His type of people was always dressed to impress.

“I’ve never been good at making things look nice. Maybe you could give me some tips?”

“Unfortunately, I think we have something in common,” she said, earning yet another sincere snicker. Whatever it was he cooked up was placed on the table already. A black crock pot with the glass lid that was far too steamy to see inside.

“Do you like shepherd’s pie?”

Morgan nodded abruptly, too prideful to admit that she hadn’t the slightest clue what it was. As she suspected, it really was meat, cheese, and mashed potatoes. _Definitely a man’s meal,_ she thought, though there was a nice serving of peas and carrots. Jed served her, talking fondly about the recipe being the only one he really knew, and that it was the first time he’d ever cooked for anyone other than himself.

“You usually make this for yourself?” she asked. Jed nodded. “… this much?”

“Huh? Oh, well, it makes great leftovers, you know?”

Upon taking her first bite, she had to pause and catch herself from going in too fast. _Shit,_ she thought, _this is actually really good._ A cautious look up to see if he’d noticed how tense she got. Jed was too busy seasoning his plate with salt and pepper, the look on his eyes sort of like that she’d see on the face of an excited boy. With a slow breath she swallowed before going in again, trying her best to look as neutral and distant as possible.

“If you want me to be honest, I’m surprised you came.”

She couldn’t fight her chuckle. That made a glint in his eyes. Wow, Morgan must have really been the tight ass to earn that sort of reaction from laughing. “Likewise,” was all she gave him, perfectly content with not saying anything as they ate. The same couldn’t have been the same for Jed.

“Like I promised: no talks of cases, victims, crimes. The whole nine yards.”

 _We’ll see._ A suspicious little look shot from across the table. Jed noticeably smirked at her, making her a tad bit annoyed. That last bite she had was smoldering, so she chased it with her beer. In no way was she interested in getting close to him. Still, she wondered why she was there, enjoying a damn good meal a little too much. The awkward pull in her chest must have been from her and her alone. Jed looked… normal. Acted normal—annoying, but normal. His house was _too normal,_ and he was alone. Hell, maybe even lonely? It didn’t seem it, but she knew people could hide certain things well about themselves. Sometimes, people were masters at it. Yet she was curious. Too damn curious for her own good. Yeah, the guy was readable, but he was still otherwise a mystery.

“You live here alone?”

And she gave into the temptation. For the second time today, too. Honestly, she had to be more careful. Jed hummed, nodding happily as he stuffed his cheeks with hot dinner like some starved hamster. He was fit, his shoulders broad, and she could see the muscles lining his arms and neck better now that he wasn’t in a dress shirt. The guy worked out—no wonder he ate like it. “Yep, moved here from Chicago not too long ago.”

She rose a brow, “Really? You seem more like a city slicker.”

“Do I? Hahah, I was hoping I didn’t. To be honest, I couldn’t stand it. Noisy… no privacy. Couldn’t ever get the opportunity to be alone.”

A guy like him wanted to be alone? The thought made her snort. “Work would have been better for you there,” she said, as if her opinion mattered. He’d looked like he was earnestly thinking about what she said.

Jed smiled, “True, but sometimes you just want a little alone time. You know?”

“I’d be having that now if it weren’t for some troublesome journalist.”

“Aweee, c’mon, I ain’t so bad, am I?”

And Morgan smiled. It was subtle, but it was still there, and the mouth of the beer bottle couldn’t hide it fast enough before Jed took notice. The way his tongue ran over his teeth almost made Morgan spit out her bitter drink. The man was painfully corny, and far too awkward to look in the eyes. With a cheeky grin he started filling up her plate a second time, and she abruptly stopped him.

“Stop, I’m full.”

“No way! You’re not on some diet, right? Because you’re thin.”

With a quirked brow she tilted her head, “You sound like my mother. Been catching stares at me? That’s rude.”

“Don’t need to. I can already tell a gorgeous woman when I see one.”

Opening her mouth to say something, she was mortified at the silence that followed. There was grin along his lips. Shit eating and sly. Rolling her eyes she placed her drink down and continued to eat once he finished force feeding her. “Have you ever heard of the term cocksure, Mr. Olsen?”

“Hey! I’m just saying I have a great eye. It takes one to know one, and I have a very good taste in women,” he reassured her, having a quick swig of his own beer, “And when are you going to start calling me Jed?”

“When we get on the first name basis,” she explained.

Again, his pale blue eyes sparked with a dangerous interest. “Oh, and when will that be?”

A pleasant hum rumbled from her throat as she scooped up some vegetables. “Assuming you follow up with your promise of _never_ approaching me again, never.” The room filled with the sound of his fork panging against his plate.

Jed stuttered, “Wait, you were being serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little mean?” he squeaked, and she failed to hold in a snicker once again. A few seconds passed before his oddly comedic pouting dispersed. “So, can I call you Morgan?”

“Talking and eating is bad table manners,” she instructed, giving him a bland stare. Having his questions ignored must be something he was used to. Jed ate, they continued with their small talk. Hobbies, interests, anything else unimportant in between. Regardless of her touchy demands, he’d said her first name five times in the past ten minutes. Like he was getting a taste for it and liked it too much. The man must have been touched starved, or socially starved, or something.

“So, your photography.”

“ _No talks of cases, victims, crimes. The **whole** nine yards,_” she repeated his previous statement a little poisonously. Visibly he shivered.

“Not that, though I’m touched you remember my words so well. Falling in love with me already?”

Trying her damn hardest to ignore the dimples on his cheeks, Morgan chewed on the meat harshly and utter a crude, “Get to the point.”

“Right, so, photography. Obviously, you do it for work. Do you take pictures of anything else?”

“… I do,” she admitted.

Humming, he rubbed his prickly chin and gave her a look of actual, genuine interest. “So an artist too, huh? Can I see one day?”

“You’re assuming you’ll get a chance?”

Jed chuckled, “Worth a shot, right? But what got you into… dead people.”

“Saw an opportunity. Took it. I didn’t do good at first, since I didn’t enjoy it.”

“That… really sounds rough. I’m sorry you deal with it all. Hard work, then?”

She gave him the look of, _what do you think?_ “I couldn’t stomach it. Not at first.” And that wasn’t a lie. Just thinking about it made the goosebumps come back. Morgan would go back home only to vomit, after having vomited at the scene. The detectives at the time were understand, and as if it were reassurance told her, _don’t worry kid, you’ll get used to it soon enough._ Disturbing enough, she actually did. “The hardest part was the smells. That, and if there were children.” Jed was immersed, to say the least. He was curious as hell, asking all sort of questions, and Morgan gave him as blunt answers as she could muster. No surprise, he lived and breathed information. It crossed Morgan’s mind that he was trying to get those juicy details from her after all, but then the subtle discussions of profession transitioned into what sort of things she liked to take pictures of.

When they finished, he insisted to get the dishes done. Morgan offered to help, which he looked painfully surprised about, but with a smile he said he’d be finished soon enough. With her second beer in hand, Morgan stalked back towards the living room, finding the area boring with nothing to observe. Shit, his home was so… lackluster. Was she hoping for that generic rich guy pad? Did she want him to be just another one of those assholes?

…did she just consider him _not_ being one?

That unexpected look on his face when she’d offered to help popped into her mind again. The swig of beer made her mind feel a bit light and free, but it wasn’t enough to screw her over. She was still within the home of a stranger, and she had to be careful. Nevertheless, she felt she’d become more prudent than she remembered. Coat tied around her waist, she assessed the photos a second time and got bored quick.

“Who’s the cute kid in the pictures?” she asked.

“That would be me… if you think I was cute then you should see me now!”

If she weren’t relaxed from her drink, she would have said something snappy back. Everything he said seemed to have left a dull ache in the base of her skull. It was confusing though, because every time he talked it made her want to chuckle. There was a hallway leading to the bathroom and more than likely a bedroom. Tiredly, Morgan stalked into the hallway to get a sneak peek of the pictures hanging there. No surprise he was sentimental. Some of old people, some of children and young adults. All kinds, really, and none that really went together well. Either he had many friends or was from a huge family. Regardless, it was different to see someone surrounded with memories as he was. She would have found it endearing if she weren’t so damn critical. Left ajar was the broom closet, the light inside off. Inside, pitch blackness flooded out. Morgan, with the cool bottle of booze in hand, reached forward with itching fingers and wrapped them around the knob. It was freezing cold to the touch, given the air vent was just above her. For a moment, Morgan couldn’t move.

Snooping around felt wrong to do. After all, she didn’t have any reason to other than to pile up dirt against him. Not to blackmail him or anything, but just to give herself a better reason to hate him other than the article incident. Though she’d never admit it to him, he had a fair enough reason to go through with it. Sometimes, people just wanted to let other people know. As if it were some weird sense of duty, a social justice. Many times she’d seen people like him make articles pettier than that. Jed actually had a decent reason.

She wanted to see what was beyond the door though. More than likely it was probably just some cleaning supplies like brooms and mops, maybe old clothes or raincoats. A peak wouldn’t hurt right? The beer in her hand was sweating, a bead of water landing on her thumb and making the skin tingle. The guy was nice enough to give her two bottles, no questions asked, and make a dinner that she admitted was not well deserved from her part. Damn, was she being nice to him in her thoughts? Shutting the door, Morgan noticed Jed in the middle of the living room. Damn, he was quiet as hell, and it would have startled the shit out of her if it weren’t for the fact that she was in _his_ house, touching around on _his_ things.

For a fraction of a second, she saw something off about his face. There wasn’t enough time to tell what it really was, but it reminded Morgan of when she first saw him. That day at the crime scene, with eyes so dead and dull. Distant like the moon up in the cold, vacuum-like void of space. The stare of a human heart disassociated from everything.

She couldn’t help but stare, her mouth agape and eyes drawn open wide like saucers, but there was nothing off about his face. He was smiling at her, his brows tilted and lips lopsided. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost,” he joked, “I promise this place isn’t haunted… is it? Uhh, I hope not. I doubted you be scared of one though. You’re pretty tough, so...” She had nothing really to say, so she answered with her stare. Honestly, she felt uncomfortable for some reason. Maybe it was because she was almost caught snooping. Fingers gripped the bottle tighter, her heart fluttering in her chest a little faster than she’d liked. Jed threw a finger over his shoulder. “By the way, I have dessert. Nothing I made; I suck at baking. Do you like ice cream?”

_Stop gawking and start talking, Morgan._

Closing her eyes, she reset her brain before giving him a small, almost nonexistent smile. “Beer and ice cream taste like shit together.” Instantly, he looked confused as hell, but he must have contemplated it for a second. When he retreated to the kitchen, Morgan could hear the clatter of silverware as he probably attempted to put the two together.

“Holy shit you’re right, this sucks!”

A wet hand patted at her forearms, easing away the goosebumps as she listened to Jed complaining to himself at how terrible of an idea it was, and that now root beer floats were out of the question. _Floats? What am I, some sort of kid?_ Still, it was a nice gesture, and when he returned with a defeated look on his face, she wasn’t expecting him to say, “Guess I couldn’t win you over with dessert before you go for good.” Scratching the back of his neck he shrugged and looked at his watch. It was getting late. “You seemed like a strawberry girl, too.”

She stared at him for some time. There was an awkward, wiry smile on his face, and admittedly he did look rather disappointed. As if he was certain he’d messed up his chances. Was he really trying to get on her good side? Morgan bit hard on her tongue, approaching him and snatching her coat from the chair he was standing next to. That sad look on his face was bothersome to see.

“Just make it up to me next time.”

Feeling the words leave her tongue, Morgan wished she could reached out and take them back. But it was far too late. Once said, Jed thought about them, then thought some more, and his pondering face grew quizzical. “Wait does that mean-”

“You left the fridge door open, Newspaper Boy.”

Mouth opened, not a word came out. He’d sifted through his thoughts, unable to recall if he did or not, and fled into the kitchen to slam the fridge shut. By the time he rushed back, she was already leaving to his driveway. Jed gave chase, nearly tripping over his jeans as he hung out from his front entrance. From behind her, she could smell the scent of pine needles and lavender. 

“Wait, does that mean I can talk to you now?”

“Goodnight,” she said to him, ignoring the annoying obvious excitement in his voice.

“When can I see you next? Do you like breakfast? I make some of the best flapjacks, flap and all.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Olsen.”

Already she was approaching her car, spotting his stupid little smile he’d casted her way and the way he was waving her off. He’d called back goodnight, a little too loud for her to bear, and she was quick to get into her car as to not be spotted. Morgan shut the door, turned on the engine, and back out into the street. “Shit…” she hissed, realizing what she’d just did. Everything she said up until now. As if on autopilot. The beer—it was the beer no doubt—that and… the loneliness. Going home to her couch, and fruit juice, and reruns didn’t seem as inviting as they were earlier. Turning calloused she leaned her head against her chair and sighed loudly, exasperatingly, into the murky, humid summer air trapped in her car. Why did she show up in the first place?

“What the fuck is wrong with me... ?” she sighed, flipping the radio back on to listen to loud 70’s rock. Driving away, she didn’t notice the way Jed’s grin twisted, the motionlessness of his limbs as his joins froze over once she was far enough away to see the bulb casting a dull light over his front porch.

There was a dead look in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It hurts me to write this, because I actually think they're really cute together. 
> 
> :') Oh well. 
> 
> QUESTION OF THE CHAPTER: If you could only ever use 4 set survivor perks for the rest of your DBD gaming career, what would they be? My usual build is Urban Evasion, Distortion, Alert, and Prove Thyself. That's probably what I'd stick with, though I wouldn't mind replacing Prove Thyself with Dead Hard or Tenacity.


	9. FINALLY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone very, very terrible was back. And he missed her so, so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUPER Long chapter :'v oops.

_Together. We need to work together. Trust one another. Don’t let anyone die._

Static jostled her mind. It felt like electricity coursed deep down to the marrow of her bones. Deeper. Deeper. Her sanity was fleeting. She’d just unhooked Jane, and she’d go for the other. She had to—Morgan wasn’t perfect, but she fled through the cold, thick aired ward as if she had no other choice. As if one person dying would ruin it all.

_Fight like it’s your last life. Run like you won’t come back from it all. When the terror comes back—when you feel like there’s no point in even trying anymore—stop, don’t let that take over._

Fuck, her legs felt like gelatin. Around the corner was him—Carter—with those twisted lips oozing with drool and eyes shifting mechanically, never stopping. No rest in his jittering muscles twitched with the currents like he’d been eternally trapped within a seizure of his own making. But it was fake. A rouse. A trick of her mind caused by his science. No, sorcery. The gasp of air should have made her feel better—she’d been holding her breath for so long—but it only made everything sting even more. He’d clubbed her with something on the side. One of the thick, rusty spikes pierced her flesh. The air felt thin, like she was atop a great, mighty mountain peak. Morgan kneaded around the wound and shivered at the tender flesh surrounding it. The wounds began to blister, more than likely from the shock of the electricity that ran from his core down to the very tip of his weapon. Morgan’s diaphragm was ruptured. Soon, if she didn’t control her breathing, she’d black out. _I-I’m going to die…_

“No!” Morgan hissed, crushing her own skull with her tremoring hands. The dirty ground cowered beneath her heated glare. “No, no, no. Not like this. Don’t fucking think just keep going!”

_There_ **is** _a point. There must be a way to stop it. Why else would it need us?_

That’s what she’d told them ages ago. At least, it felt so long ago. She’d been through eight trials since then. Eight.

She hadn’t died yet, nor was she planning on it.

And neither did Laurie, or David, or Tapp… the list went on. It took her time to get through to everyone, but the word spread. Like a wildfire, it reached far and wide until she was certain that every single survivor knew what was going on. Until everyone was in the loop. Since then, people have indeed died, but not nearly as much as before. Currently, Ace held the longest streak of escape: twelve trials in a row.

A cry came out of Quentin’s lips. It was her first trial with him. “H-He’s… not doing the usual,” he stuttered as Morgan bounded up the gaping hole with her knitted jacket. It didn’t matter. She’d get it back good as new, just like her body, somehow. A brow pulled up, her confusion evident. “Carter,” he clarified, “he’s never predictable, but… s-shit this hurts…” Quentin couldn’t finish he sentence, so Morgan decided not to pressure him. It didn’t matter. Smooth ride or rough, they had to keep performing well.

“Don’t waste your energy. We’ve got one generator left. Find a gate, you’re good at that. Make sure it’s open and wait by the brick pillars. If he gets anywhere too close to you, forget about us. Just run, got it?”

“You… don’t have to tell me twice,” he laughed, a look of despair in his eyes. He never liked abandoning anybody. Quentin would rather die than ditch out, much like David. That, however, was their biggest fallbacks. At least with this new plan.

“Hey,” Morgan placed a hand on his good shoulder, tugging him a bit to shake the tired haze from his eyes. He was stared behind her, perhaps at a hallucination. Their hearts were hammering, but they knew better. He wasn’t nearby, but rather too busy chasing down Meg. Morgan knew they had some time—the girl was the fastest of them all. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t be saying it if I thought we couldn’t pull through without you. You did three gens. You did your part. Trust us.”

The boy did. Time always seemed to slow down in these… other realms. In the cruelest of games. The tired high schooler was forced out, and it left the girls to fend for themselves. In a sense they were blessed: been it that one particular member of that masked legion, or the bulking mass of a trapper, or the clown that stank of tobacco and formaldehyde, they would have surely not been so fortunate as they were now. Those three in particular had a sort of deeper drive when it came to the females. Be it sexual or just preference, no one knew, and no one cared to find out why. They didn’t dare to dwell so deeply into a killer’s affairs.

“Morgan, wake up! Morgan!” Warmth spread over Morgan’s cheeks before she woke up. It was a strange feeling, how her physical body sometimes came to before her consciousness. Fingers were rubbing at her forehead, her eyes peeling open quickly to see the smiling faces of Feng and Meg. Damn, did her body feel sore as hell. Somewhere deep down she still felt the shock of electricity buzzing through her, and the madness of the doctor’s powerful effects probing madness into her mind. Just moments ago, she swore she saw him everywhere. She heard his voice whispering terrible things.

 _Come back, **Miss Yoon,**_ he told her inside her mind, _there are so many theories I must test about you!_

He’d known her name. She didn’t know how, or why, but he did. Then Morgan wondered: did all the killers know so much about the survivors? Did they camaraderie with one another, or had they been isolated apart like vicious fighting dogs in dank, nasty kennels? A deep breath flooded her lungs. They filled to the brim, and it didn’t hurt her at all. Ribs mended, her diaphragm newly repaired, she slowly sat up and felt the peat and rocks falling from her knitted sweater. Quentin and Jane were nowhere in sight. Rubbing her temple, she lets out a shaky breath.

“Are you alright? We ran back to the campfire and you instantly collapsed,” Meg explained on her hands and knees, the worry plaguing her face a bit out of character for her. She was always such a strong and independent young woman. Always running into the dangerous zones, her heels skidding her far across the bloody terrain with fear in her eyes. Despite that, she never yielded from causing so much ruckus that none of the killers could possibly ignore, only to sprint and lead them far away.

Feng was kneeling down, her back facing the fire as she soaked up the delicious heat. Her small eyes seemed to have been more swollen than usual. Morgan realized she’d been crying from worrying over her. A bit of her felt guilty for passing out. “Yeah,” she said more meekly than she’d liked. “I was… overwhelmed.”

“I thought you died,” Feng muttered, voice tight. “You didn’t look like you were breathing. I was so worried, but then I felt awful. Dying would have been a good thing, but I didn’t want it either. I felt so scared yet selfish.”

Nothing she’d say would make the woman feel better, so Morgan opted for leaning her head against her shoulder instead. The two pressed into one another, watching the fire as Meg continued to dust her own knees off.

“They’re getting worse,” Jake dared to break the silence with bad news. Lately, he’d been hanging more around the groups that’d cluster together. That was the word at least, which Morgan would receive the updates from a select few. It was good—it meant their attempts at unifying the whole was working. “Some don’t bother to hook anymore.”

That was right; Jake didn’t even get that luxury in his last trial. He’d been brutally murdered instantly by the mad chainsaw wielder, who’s face was bound by the skin of a dead man. A putrid air always followed him. Acrid sweat and the sweet stench of rot. Morgan shivered at the thought. _So, that’s what Quentin meant,_ she remembered, recalling the frightened young man and the overly aggressive way that the mad doctor had been acting in that trial. As if he were desperate to kill someone. Anyone. And in any means, even if it were unconventional for his usual standards. In the corner of the log, facing away from the fire, Dwight had a shivering hand pressed over his mouth. Some more hardened individuals, like Bill who simply stared at the burning logs with a cigarette over his mouth, didn’t say anything at all.

“Doesn’t matter, so long as we don’t feed it,” Jeff’s gravelly voice muttered into the cold wintery air. Meg was leaning into him for warmth, his thick leather-cladded arm wrapping around her exposed shoulders. She shivered.

“Don’t tell me you believe that horseshit,” Bill said, “There ain’t no proof. It’s just a guess Morgan made up. Told you kids to keep your noses out of that damn book. Can’t trust anything about it, not without knowing who wrote it. For all we know it’s from a killer.”

“Then what else are we supposed to trust Bill? There isn’t much to go by. Would you rather keep on dying until we end up in the Void?” Jeff said, his thick brows arching low as he huddled closer into the shivering Meg.

Bill bit down hard on his cigarette. He’d always wanted to smoke it, but never did. Never wanted to waste the last one he’d ever have. “We ain’t ever getting out of this one.” And he said nothing else, only stared at his old weathered hands in silence.

Morgan had listened—she always did. There was a fraction of a second where she’d almost believed what Bill had said. Lingering inside of her was that desire to just belly up. One day maybe she’d never return here, and her body would be left bloating in the one of the grassy knolls belly up full of flies. A cold breeze tossed her brown locks about, her eyes straining as she scrolled through the photos in her camera. Some where of before she’d been brought there. Little birds in the park or of her farm. A few from here, of people singing. She’d wished there were someone other than Kate that had a guitar. If Jeff somehow brought with him his instrument into this terrible place, then they’d be singing songs and chattering about life before here.

Stories Nea and her run from the cops after spray painting the side of a railroad cart, or Feng when she’d made it big the MLG China. Yui had an interesting story, sharing her experiences caring for troubled women. The thought of sitting at the back of a speed bike going 180mph down the freeway didn’t sound so distasteful for Morgan. It would have been a nice rush, the good kind. Not the sort where she’d be fearing for her life every single millisecond. Currently, she didn’t doubt that if Kate weren’t in a trial or sleeping, she was being boastful and strumming her instrument beautifully. Playing music for which ever lucky souls were stuck at the campfire with her. Bringing them a sense of calm. Something to look forward to.

Not like here, right now.

“That’s exactly what it wants us to believe. If we give up hope now, then we’d might as well offer ourselves up during the trials. Just a little longer. If we keep holding out, and my theory is right, then something is going to happen,” Morgan said. What that something was, however, she wasn’t even sure. All she knew was that it would be different.

“Fuck, could use a beer,” David bellowed, his boots kicking up dust as he adjusted his rear end against the uncomfortable log. His eyes were cloudy with exhaustion, but he never really took the time to sleep. Finger came up to scratch beneath his jawline. He looked to Morgan, “Ever been to a pub?”

“Used to go every week,” she hummed. The memory of Jed’s icy cold beers made her mouth water. The smile she had nearly faded away at the thought.

“You single?” David asked. Morgan chuckled.

“It’s complicated.”

“Why’s that always the lady’s response, eh? ‘s relationships like math to ya?” he asked, not meaning to sound so rude. If anything he just didn’t get the irony of it. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one to have responded with that sort of answer.

“… I wanted to finish a case before we could become serious,” she admitted, stretching until her back popped, and once again she scrolled through the photographs. Feng was listening curiously next to her, watching the pictures flash by with a glint of interest in her eyes. “Obviously, I never got around to it. I ended up here,” Morgan explained. It was David’s turn to frown.

“Shit sounds rough. Sorry mate.”

Kicking herself up, Meg bounced on one leg and leg to get her blood moving. Her nose was wrinkled with irritation. “Seriously? Talking about stuff like that, King? Do you _want_ to bore us with _bar_ talk?”

“What do’ya got against me now, Barbie Doll?”

“The fact that you look like prison garbage.”

Again they were teasing each other, calling out names and jutting out insults until the other would lose their breath. One would find it intimidating. At the very beginning when she’d first woken up there, Morgan believed them to be fighting. But it wasn’t so much as an argument as it was a playful banter. Their obvious grins pulled at the corners of their lips. David tossed a small, harmless rock to her ankles, which she dodged swiftly with ease. Dwight watched from behind his log with a nervous expression, his eyes jumping from one person to another as they continued to slay with the crudest, most foul language one has ever heard. A light chuckle fluttered from Bill—the war veteran had heard far worse back in Vietnam—and only silently praised Meg for her ferocious energy. Said a girl needed to be tough to be where they were.

“You gotta fat lip on your face. You sure it isn’t a second asshole?”

Oh, that was a good one. Morgan couldn’t hold her snicker, David’s eyes wide with surprise. “The fuck did ya say? Did ya really just make that up?”

“Hell yeah I did. I’m an insult generator. My mouth’s as quick as my feet, bar hopper.”

“Yer lucky we’re jus’ playin’ around. Any random bloke out in the street would wake up in the hospital after sayin’ something like that ta me,” he grinned.

Dwight shivered, shaking his head and turning his attention away, exchanging a nervous glance with Jake who looked equally as amused as the rest of the crowd. “C’mon David, bet you can’t worse shit than Meg,” Jeff whistled. There was a shimmering in David’s eyes. The challenge was clearly accepted. The next flurry of words between the two were dirtier, harsher, and as their volume grew the snickering turned to harsh laughter. Meng’s face winced.

“So much noise,” she sighed, leaning further into Morgan. She watched the pictures scroll by still. There were quite a lot of them. “You’re very good at what you do.”

Morgan gave her a confused look before smiling, “Thank you.”

“Do you… think it’s going to work? Can we really starve it if we keep surviving?” Feng asked.

Damn, she wished she had something better to say. Scrambling through her mind for the perfect answer, Morgan could only let her breath sigh into the frosty air before uttering, “I don’t know. Just have to try and hope for the better.”

Hope. Yes, that was it. The kicker. The confusing yet only truth they had to cling onto. Hope. It was a hard pill to swallow, but it was spreading slowly yet surely. Morgan could tell. Before, they never all sat this close together. They never laughed or talked about life or had a full-on insult battle, as David and Meg were rather famous for. “Who took that?” Feng asked, spotting a photo of Morgan, obviously frustrating and attempting to cover her face. Her nose noticeably wrinkled at the sight. Feng smiled, “Was it that guy you were telling David about?”

“Yeah,” she sighed. She wondered how Jed was doing now, but she didn’t want to dwell too much on it. She couldn’t afford to get sentimental with what she lost, despite how much she longed for it again. As her thumb continued to press the scroll wheel, Morgan’s least favorite photo flashed by for a moment.

“W-What was that?”

A breath sucked between her teeth. “A sick psychopath,” she muttered. Long gone, yet the sound of his voice crying out into the warm Florida night was still in her memories. She’d wished for a better parting from the real world. “He was a murder suspect. The one I took a photo of before I ended up here. Nothing worth looking at.”

“Y-You know… I think… I think I’ve seen… oh no, Morgan!”

The sound of Feng’s voice was a mix of sad and urgent. The photographer looked over, the sound of the banter and vulgar insults silencing instantly the moment Morgan was whisked away into another trial.

_What? Already? I’d just gotten back…_

When she came to, she’d nearly stumbled over. Already placed on her two feet, she stirred for a moment and stared around the field of fog and dense foliage. Shit, she’d never get used to the transition. Stomach heaving, she fought back the urge to vomit and instantly felt the wet kiss of the cold air. A distant crow called out in the distance. Insects chirped, but it didn’t remind her of spring. In the distance, she could see an old cottage.

She’d been here before, once, and every inch of the woods was filled with the gentle sound of singing back then. Haunting, and far from motherly. Now, though, it was only the deadly silence. Strange, how quiet it was, yet everything seemed so _loud_. Bushes shuffled beside her. Morgan nearly yelped, but upon seeing the familiar face, she calmed down.

“ **Fuck** , Ace!” she gasped, doing everything she could to calm down her racing heart. The man smiled sheepishly.

“You know, I’ve heard those two words together in the same sentence plenty of times in my life. Never thought I’d hear it here, though.”

Adjusting his cap, he held out a hand expectantly. She pulled him up, their backs quick to pressing against the gargantuan tree nearby. “It isn’t often I start next to somebody,” Morgan admitted. Ace flashed her a very nervous lopsided grin.

“Guess my luck is spreading to you after all.”

Some time they waited, hearing nothing but the forest noises. Admittedly, they’d hoped to have caught sight of whatever it was they were up against, but when nothing passed by except for the occasional coasting crow or a gust of wind, Morgan sputtered out her thoughts.

“Don’t think this is going to work.”

Ace shrugged, “Seemed to always before, at least ever since you’d told me to.” It gave the man an upper hand—gave him his huge winning streak. He’d known what he was up against before it even knew he was there, and the success in Ace only proved it was a viable tactic. Yet, the fish never bit, and Morgan knew the longer they’d wait, the more fearful they’d become. “What’s the plan then, boss?”

Weird, she’d never been called that until recently. Gripping her camera tightly she gave another look around the tree. “Hard to tell… not sure if it’s best to get gens done together or separately.” Because it always depended on who it was they were facing. Sometimes, the killers were far too narrow minded to notice everyone working on the same generator. Other times, however, they were thorough. It just wasn’t possible to work together fast enough when facing the ghostly nurse or one of the many legions. “Head to a gen. Keep low, and don’t do anything rash. Not unless we know who we’re facing.”

“Got it.” Ace tipped his hat before treading off, quiet and slow. Once the fog swallowed him up, and Morgan couldn’t see him anymore, she slowly crawled from cover to cover in search of a reasonable task. This low to the ground was when she’d find the luminescent skulls baking over ash, or the small chests that would occasionally hold something game changing. Within the cabin were candles upon candles, each lit and burning pleasantly and giving the large entrance a warm whisky glow. She’d heard the shifting of gears inside. When the wooden planks creaked beneath her feet, she saw Nancy’s shoulders twitch violently.

Almost made a mistake there. Almost.

“Shit, you scared me,” the younger girl breathed, sweat evident over her shiny forehead as she shook off the fright and continued to work. Morgan saw she’d been on it for a while.

“Did you see what it was?” she asked, but Nancy only shook her head.

“No… I thought they would have found me by now, but I took the chance. You’re the first thing I’ve seen since this started.”

With a smile on her face, Morgan patted her back firmly, “I’ll stand and watch. Keep working, I’ve got your back.” Nodding furiously, the girl continued. Morgan leaned firmly against the doorway, eyes surveying the dark forest line constantly until her head almost spun. The windows would more than likely creak should someone try and crawl in without them knowing, and the back door was clearly in Nancy’s view. There were many entrances, but only one where they could successfully sneak their way in.

Should it be the wraith, she had the wispy fog to aid her. Morgan rearranged the candles beneath the windows and near the entrances. All they needed was a flame to suddenly die. To fade away into nothing. If any specter were to sneak in, that would be their warning. No spirit, or nurse, or wraith could catch them by surprise. Yet, none were snuffed out, even though Nancy was almost completed with the first… no, second generator. The air boomed with a loud sound. Someone completed one before they could. Was it Ace? Or the other survivor. She wasn’t sure, but it came from Morgan’s left.

Good, they should be fine. Things were going well. Soon, Nancy would get the second gen, and together they could work on the third. It appeared that whoever the killer was, they were being well distracted or not very observant. _That mangey hillbilly?_ Morgan thought, _No… he always liked to flaunt that chainsaw. We would have heard it by now. Michael is very patient. It could be him._ It’s why she’d been listening for the loud breathing. It was his only give away, and after facing him once, Morgan knew she’d never forget it. _Michael… or the dream demon. That’s what Quentin called it. He said I’d get sleepy when he’s around, but I feel fine._ A cautious look to Nancy. She didn’t seem in the least bit tired. A shaky breath came from Morgan’s lips. Not knowing was frightening her all the more.

They’d both jumped at the sound of a scream so loud, so ominous, that Morgan couldn’t control herself. She’d knocked down a coat stand, the wooden beam coming down with a loud crash. Hands pulled against her hair, blocking her ears, and she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She had to clam down; but shit, that was loud as hell. Nancy somehow didn’t slip up behind the generator. Wide, horrified eyes looked towards Morgan, but then another cry of agony came. It was far off, maybe a few hundred yards. Peeling her eyes open, Morgan threw her head out the door and stared off into the forest. The screaming never stopped. It kept happening.

“That sounds like Tapp,” Nancy stuttered. Morgan felt sweat dripped from her brow, her heart wrenching in her chest. Whatever outlandish thing was happening, it was starting to get to her. 

“… finish that gen. Find another when you’re done.”

“Be careful Morgan, we don’t know what we’re up against!”

She’d informed them well enough. Every word slipping from their mouths sounded like an echo of herself. _Don’t let **anyone** die. _That included herself. Morgan paced her body now, let herself skid across the dewy blades of grass until she’d slipped into an absolute stop. Tapp was around the corner. **Begging.** Never had she heard him sound so tragically demolished into nothing but a frightened little speck. White knuckled, she felt the sweat dripping down the side of her head. It was so cold out, but humid at the same time. One breath, two. They came rushing out between chattering teeth. Morgan’s heart was hammering, but not because a deadly killer’s presence was near. No, it was her own fear rattling her bones. Surely, it was Michael. She could never sense him this early on, this physically close. There, beneath the pallet. She could see Tapp crawling quickly, his forearms working him towards her direction. He saw her peaking from behind her small, pathetic little cover of an upturned wagon.

_Now, do it now!_

Within seconds she’d leapt over his tattered body, yanking down the pallet over the dark cladded figure. There was a grunt of pain, their lungs seething out a noise that, oddly enough, gave her a pang of familiarity. Morgan looked at the killer and expected the tall tower of a white masked man, whose breathing was heavy and ominously evenly paced, and hands so great it could crush a man’s skull. She’d expected Michael. But the ghostly face of someone far worse staggered before her for a second. Morgan breathed, and then she couldn’t anymore. Inside, her heart was squeezing, and her lungs just couldn’t remember how to work.

Then his head arching up to see her and… he was still. Like he hadn’t expected to see _her_. The ghostly mask rose, a slow yet nonplus breath being sucked in. And then, so very slowly, he tilted his head to the side, the leather boots squeaking and the thick gloves gripping around that familiar knife. Eyes stinging, Morgan shook her head, because she couldn’t believe it.

Ghostface… anyone but Ghostface.

An excited noise came out of his lungs—a mix between a snarl and a cackle. He’d swung forward like lightning, the front of her clothes slitting open. Morgan cried out, stumbling back just in the lick of time to dodge a fatal cut. Instinctually she pressed the flash button, and in an instant the killer was momentarily blinded with a familiar streak of white over his vision. A frustrated snarl escaped him, his dangling sleeves fluttering like the wings of a crow as he twisted his torso left and right, the knife searching dangerously through the air for her delicate flesh. With her fingers looping around Tapp’s bulletproof vest, she hoisted him up and beelined for the ticker parts of the forest. “Run!” she screamed, “Run, move! C’mon Tapp!” There was fright in ever inch of her words, lacing the sweat that sheened down her chest, merging with the blood that stung the fresh wound just under her collarbone. Wooden planks snapped beneath the _killer’s foot, his voice bellowing out a howl into the night air._

 _“Yes… **YES**!”_ he cried, his laugh cursing the night and frightening the crows into a frantic flight. _“I’M COMING FOR YOU!”_ Morgan’s blood turned cold at the sound. It was so familiar, to familiar. She’d never wanted to hear it ever again, yet it was that maniacal laughing flooding her ears once more. Tapp was bleeding so much that it made her grip slippery. The tears were blinding her eyes. Morgan stumbled over his weak legs, her own losing their feeling. Shit, she was so frightened she could barely breath.

_Calm down, Morgan, calm down!_

A scream came from her when she collided into something. Her body hit the dirt, Tapp slamming down like a log into a ditch. His voice gurgled. Many deep cuts and scrapes were lacing his body, but not into any fatal organs. “Shit!” cried Ace, who had been simply passing by. The usual tanned coat he sported was smeared with crimson red. Slowly he tried to ease Tapp up. “Wraith, Michael? Who is it?!”

“S-Someone else, someone new,” Tapp coughed up blood, eyeing Morgan’s twisted expression. No surprise she was scared, but something was off about her.

“Take him and go,” she’d hurried Tapp up with Ace, glancing back at the blood trail they’d left. There was no sign of him. “Three gens done… three gens. Just two more, we can do it.”

“He’s quiet,” Tapp warned, and she bitterly sucked on her tongue. Swallowed back her words, _I know…_

Gone, gone, down into the invisible path did they race. In no time they were gone, the strangled noises of Tapp trying to bite back the pain fading away. Hands shook like leaves as she gripped her camera, her eyes so wide her lids might just have ripped clean off. In the open, she stalked through the thickets, bobbing and weaving between tall pines. _Gotta cover up the trail,_ she thought, diving her heel into the dirt and hiding all the blood left behind. Tapp was vulnerable, and it was no doubt he’d want to aim for the weakest of the lambs first.

There, she swore she just saw something pass between the clearing in front of her. A flashback of her early morning jog all those weeks, months… shit, it felt like years. But it was a familiar sensation. She’d been through this before. Stalking in the woods. Back then, she thought she was safe. Swore it was just a bear. It was different now. She knew better. Stubborn, she stood still, staring hard at a tree where the figure had dived beneath. It moved swiftly, smoothly, like a bundle of smoke or some strange storybook specter. So quiet, too. If it weren’t for her good eyes, she wouldn’t have seen it. Morgan felt like she was having a stare down with nothing at all. For all she knew, he could have been right behind her. Yet she refused to yield, kept her eyes on the bark of that deep wooded tree. When fingers crawled around the edge like a spider, the pasty white mask following close after, Morgan turned her heels and fled a direction far from the men. Far from where she’d last seen Nancy.

 _Be like Meg!_ She wasn’t nearly as fast as Meg, nor was she as bold, but she didn’t give herself the option. She ran and ran until her lungs felt like bursting, and until the tears in her eyes were flying from her lids. _“FASTER!”_ A glimpse of the masked stalker was caught a couple times, boosting her speed until she swore her hamstrings were going to snap like rubber bands in the cold air. The cackle carried through the wind, the birds clawing at her as she passed them by tugging at her knitted jacket. Morgan swiped them away and threw herself over the natural debris. His breathing was so loud it made her head hurt.

A strong jerk thrusted her body back, her neck caught by her seized shirt. It drew a gag from her mouth, her head banging against the soft peated ground. Soft, but it still felt like a hammer banging the back of her skull. Morgan groaned, the world spinning around her. Barely could she make out the masked man straddling her body, her hands pinned beneath the great weight of his solid knees. Behind him, she watched the many stray ends of the belts flying about ethereally, like some ghostly entity bounded by thick fabric and leather. “ _You_ ,” he breathed, his hands grasping either side of her head. Fingers dug into her brown locks, messing up her rattled head even further. A confused noise came tumbling out of her lips, and Ghostface only giggled gleefully. The way he was breathing, and muttering nonsense beneath his breath, it did more than scare Morgan. She swore she was going to die from the fear alone. “So long,” he snickered, petting her hair preciously, “So long I’ve **_almost_** forgotten…!”

For a small moment she didn’t know how to react. Puzzled, she stared with terrified eyes, her world still spinning from the forming concussion. A sudden calm enveloped the killer, like he’d gotten a hold of himself. “…but I remember now. I could never forget you,” he purred, a gloved finger rubbing against her swollen lips. “Hello again… _Morgan_.” Her breath hitched, and she somehow snagged her hand free. The blinding white light flickered again, and again, and again. A hiss came from the man above her as he snatched the camera from her grasp, the cord snapping from around her neck. “Gimmie that thing!” he waggled his finger, breathing heavily as he looked at the instrument. A low whistle came from him. “This what you’ve been using against those fuck face wannabe killers?” he questioned, his words confusing Morgan. As he assessed it, she struggled to reach an understanding. “Hey, this thing’s real nice! I’m sorta jealous,” he commented. Holding the shutter down he flashed photo after photo, her groan loud. Shit, it was so fucking bright she couldn’t see.

“Oh yeah, I think it loves you more than it does me.”

She was about to curse at him, but he hoisted her up over his shoulder in one perfect fluid motion. Morgan cried out bloody murder. Her fists beat against his back, her legs kicking the air in absolute desperation. She cried and screamed until her voice almost died out, only to start up again at the sound of his laughing. The tall tell groan of metal startled her. Morgan looked over her shoulder, beyond his earthy scented hood, to see they were approaching a _hook_.

“Word says you’ve been a naughty little girl. Daddy has to teach you some _manners_ ~.”

“W-What?” she sputtered, the edge of the hook brushing against her back suddenly. Morgan couldn’t control herself anymore. “No, **no**! Put me down!” Morgan hit harder, kicked more furiously. The tip of her foot caught the beam of the metal, rusty hook, and she pushed against it with all her might. Ghostface grabbed the back of her knees, huddled her closer to him. As it pierced through her shoulder, her screaming came to a halt. The pain, it was unbearable. So much that her mind went blank. Gripping the end, slippery and wet with her hot blood, she shuddered and teared up, blinded by the watery rim of her lash line. But somehow, she could still see him, staring up at her with that long, horrid face, a pleasant hum reverberating from his slowly rising and falling chest. He was staring up at her like she was some form of art to admire. Minutes felt too long to handle. Morgan gagged and hiccup, her hands gripping the rusty tip in the hopes of alleviating the burning intensity of the great wound. _Please leave… please leave… don’t stay._ Because if he stayed, there was no way someone was going to be able to unhook her. A gloved finger pressed against her belt, hooking upward and slowly bringing up her shirt to expose her belly. Once again, he sighed.

“I’ll leave you hanging for now. Think about what you’ve done and… _don’t go anywhere…”_

A push. She was swinging, her voice ragged as she cried out agonizingly. Without thinking she kicked her foot forward, thwarting her pain into a whole new degree of unbearable. Ghostface giggled at her little antics. Another cry, only louder. When she opened her eyes he was suddenly gone. Just like a ghost.

“Ahh… nn… okay… I-I'm okay…”

No, nothing was okay. This was definitely not okay. If only she could shake her head, bang some sense into her brain. But she couldn’t. Everything felt so wrong. _Keep it together Morgan… fuck! This hurts… oh shit it hurts so much!_ Seconds from passing out, Morgan rose her head to the sound of feet racing towards her. Through foggy vision she saw Nancy, taking momentary shelter behind a stack of logs. _Please help me,_ she thought she said out loud, but her mouth wasn’t working. Again, she tried to speak again, but a choked gasp drew out from her lips. Nancy was about to close in, but Morgan saw something to the side. Hiding.

Eyes wide, she watched Ghostface, so barely visible yet so well hidden on the other side of the log pile. The belts gave him off, swishing through the air like devilish tails. Morgan coughed out, shaking her head furiously despite the pain. “No!” the scream merged with a helpless cry. “He's here!”

Ghostface tried—his arm swung to the side and nearly dug into Nancy’s eye—but she’d fell back and bounded for the center of the forest. Morgan expected him to follow her, but instead he returned to his spot and waited, watching.

The fourth generator was completed.

Morgan stared at his hidden form watching her, his haunting aura making the air feel colder and heavier than what it usually was. A few minutes pass, her dangling body cringing every so often from the torment.

The fifth generator was completed.

Why wasn’t he trying to kill the others? Didn’t he have a goal as well? At the very least her friends were going to escape. _No one is left to die… not even you. Get out._ Oh no… she’d heard stories of people pulling themselves free from the hook, but now that it was her turn…

“C’mon Morgan,” she stuttered, tears spilling anew at the anticipation. Hands shakily reached forward, Morgan taking in jagged breath after breath. The strength in her left arm was shattered, the muscles destroyed once pierced. The only was she could hope for freeing herself was to build up momentum up, and then forward. Legs carefully reached back until she felt her foot plant against the tall pillar which she hung from. It groaned beneath her weight. Morgan squeezed her eyes shut. Above her, the Entity was beginning to form. The claws smelt of old blood, and rot, and burning ash. They jittered above her, impatiently, and she shook her head furiously at the sight. _Do it, Morgan. You’re running out of time!_ The claws twitched again. They weren’t coming for her, not after her warnings. It was all or nothing. With a firm kick she launched herself upward, her body swinging out. There wasn’t enough strength behind her swing, the apprehension from the pain making the spiked edge rip as she slid free from her spot. An anguished bellow rattled from her throat, Morgan’s body hitting the ground hard like a dead fish. Dirt rose as she gripped the grass beneath her for leverage.

She was about to vomit.

Kicking herself up, Morgan stumbled away, drunken with pain. There was a door she’d remembered seeing. If she could only just make it there, and perhaps it would already be opened. Morgan zipped, slamming from trunk to trunk, the world beneath her feeling so uneven. The feet were catching up, the laughing loud and boisterous and deafening. “Morgan!” she heard the cries. Whosever voice it was she couldn’t even tell. There was light, the sounds of metal shrieking as the exit gates slid open. Ace was approaching her, arms wide open. The scent of his bad cologne and body sweat was like salvation.

“Ahh!” Morgan screamed, her body hitting the ground hard. There was a sudden pain overwhelming her ankle. When she looked, a blade was dug deep inside, slicing through the sensitive tendon that kept her standing. Ace cursed under his breath, his body shying away when Ghostface crawled from his hiding spot just three hundred feet away from the exit gates. He’d been there, and none of them noticed. In all fours he hovered nearby, the bloody knife arching a shade of red that would have otherwise been so beautiful. “ _C’mon_ ,” he urged, the insanity in his tone making their bones quake. _“Get her! Come get her you scared, worthless, little piece of **shit**!” _

Another cackle, loud and ungodly. It coursed through his body, more disturbing than the doctor’s. _Run,_ her eyes told him. Face forlorn, Ace shifted backwards before darting towards the gate. Ghostface stalked for a short distance, watching Ace drag both Tapp and a very unwilling Nancy out into salvation. Beyond the bricks they were safe, and no matter how hard they’d try, they would never be able to get back in. Morgan knew, she’d tried it before. She coughed, her hand gripping her pantleg as she dared to look down at her destroyed ankle.

Could she ever walk again?

Too painfully slowly, Ghostface turned his attention back towards Morgan. There was a glare in her eyes that looked misplaced upon her tattered, quivering body. His gloved hands wiped the blade so obviously before her. “I fucking **_knew_** you had the balls to unhook yourself,” he breathed, making her body shrink deeper into the soil. “Ran all the way back here when you weren’t looking. You’re so quick on your pretty little feet… those other chumps couldn’t even get their hands on you. But I can. I know _everything_ about you. You’re my special girl...” Hunching over her now, he lets the knife dangle teasingly between his fingers as he placed a fist against his cheek, mirroring a curious, naughty child staring down at a helpless little animal. Morgan turned her face away when he drew too close.

_“Let’s catch up.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody always writes Ghostface taking advantage of the system and I'm no different I suppose. Finally he shows up :'). 
> 
> QUESTION OF THE CHAPTER: What's the scariest mori in game? Hillbilly's and Leatherface's make me cringe the most, as does the Spirit's, but the Plague's is pretty bad too in a gross way. Out of them all I think I'm scared by Leatherface's the most though.


	10. Messages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ghostface's messages made Morgan fearful. Luckily, Jed was a great distraction.

Wind lashed up, blowing her hair back and over the curve of her neck. There was a tremor building up her body as the tremors beneath clashed from the ground up. At top speed she leaned forward, her body following the pivot of his grand neck, the thick waxy hair swept back and already beginning to tangle. Morgan held her breath, concentrated, until her heart raced at the thrill.

A body flashed before her eyes: bad visions of cases from the past. They used to make her falter, but now she could manage. She refused to give those fearful moments any more power over her. At these moments she felt so alive and free. Nothing gave her such a powerful sense relief like going faster than her own legs could take her. “Woooaah,” she clicked, the steed beneath her easing into a slower trot. A hand released the reigns when she felt her horse’s speed stabilize, her bare palm patting firmly against its neck. “Back up,” she urged when he’d gotten too close to the ditch that followed the length of her property. Many trees lined the field of green, where the grass was beginning to get a bit too long. Soon she’d have to drive the lawn mower, but she’ll worry about that later. The soft breeze of fall was close at hand. Summer would end soon, and that meant more time out on the farm. Two goats bleated along the fence line, probably angry at the fact that they’d run out of hay again. Or, more so, the horse at it all. “Fat ass,” she mumbled, lovingly nonetheless. The pager on her hip began to vibrate. Morgan’s face grew long, her eyes fixed to the screen.

**_‘3842 Poinsettia Trail, Roseville’_ **

There wasn’t even any time for her to change. Morgan drove down the long dirt road back into town. Most of the time it took her thirty minutes to get to her locations. Sometimes she wondered if it would have been easier to sell everything and get an apartment, but the thought of not having the privacy practically killed her. Nature gave her a sense of ease and escape that she never could find otherwise. There were no other options besides it: no friends to hang out with, no loving husband to console her when the days got rough. Hearing the sirens blaring nearby as she crossed one of the busiest intersections reminded her that living in the city would make everything that much harder.

“Morgan,” Tod greeted, “G’morning.”

“Morning, Tod,” she said, watching the older man swabbing a patch of blood on the wall. It was a stray splatter. Given the angle, Morgan glanced up towards the direction of its source and…

Shit, she’d almost let herself get too lost into the literal _mess._ The white tiles of the kitchen were crusted with red blood that ran down between like rivers of wine. Fingers were curled in such awful angles. They were broken, maybe from when they’d try to catch themselves from the fall. Only Tod would be able to determine that professionally. When the detective walked in, the first thing he noticed was the look on Morgan’s face. It was obvious she was struggling to stomach what she was seeing. But he couldn’t blame her. The abdomen spilled out adipose tissue, all yellow and fluffy and foul looking. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, recollected her thoughts. She needed the restart.

“You okay?”

And then she opened them, seeing the sight before her that didn’t disappear. Didn’t turn any less ugly. Didn’t get any better. But she was able to stomach it: from the torn skin to the way the swollen tongue spilled out between the wrenched purple lips. She could stomach it.

“Yeah.”

Dead toned, like always, with a hint of exhaustion. This job, it took everything out of her. Joseph gave her a flash of an apologetic look but was quick into work. He’d been on overdrive for only God knew how long. “This is the only spot in the house we’ll need pictures of.”

“Got it.”

Morgan approached the kitchen entrance, a small literal hole in the wall. Whatever was around her corner was in full view now. Morgan froze at the sight. A bloody message was left on the pale wooden cabinets, almost difficult to decipher after dripping down for hours.

**_Do you think about me too?_ **

Scrolling back through the history of her camera, she sifted through a week’s worth before find what she wanted to find: a picture. A picture from a scene only the week prior. Of another murder, except it was the first time there was a message left behind.

Then it said, _I’m thinking about you._

Like on autopilot she began to snap photographs of the strange characters before turning to face the body. “Another one,” she mumbled, Joseph staring at the dried sentence with a hardened gaze.

“If he means the force, then it depends. Does he hate the ever loving shit out of us? Because that’s how I fucking feel.”

Morgan shivered, “Sounds more like some creepy love letter. Any women on this case?”

“Not much, none that came into contact with him from what we know at least. I doubt it’s that.”

An acrid smell in the air made her stomach feel sour. It was the stench of blood and bile after sitting out in the open for so long. A few more photographs, Morgan took her time to not get in Tod’s way as he assessed the body alongside her. “Most of the past victims died from some sort of tactical knife. Half serrated, half smooth. A few were killed with culinary knives. Brands matched the kitchen sets from the drawers,” Tod said.

“Doesn’t that mean they were already inside before the victims noticed?” Morgan suggested.

Joseph didn’t say anything. That was enough confirmation alone. A quick look around in the living room, Morgan shot photos of the back door that was left wide open. There were no signs of struggle anywhere else in the house. The killer had snuck in from the back porch, unbeknownst to the owner of the home, when he’d gotten up and started heading for the kitchen. The television was left on, playing some history documentary. Morgan could hear the smooth voice of the announcer and the gunshots firing, the mortars exploding. It was the sounds of war.

 _Poor guy didn’t even know it was coming,_ she thought, _nobody ever does… people in car accidents get up and do their morning routines. People come home and expect to go to bed after dinner, only to get filled with stab wounds._ Another shake of her head. No way was she going to get sentimental. Not now, not while she was at work. But the thought of that man having been sitting on the chair comfortably, all the while being watched by some psycho in a costume hiding outside his home… Joseph was talking over the radio about some warrant status. He’d been trying to track down sales for local costume venues. Hell, even the ones who sold internationally. Assuming that would take him anywhere. She remembered last case, where he was speaking under his breath, _there are thousands of these ghost face costumes. Thousands…_

Yet again it was a dead end for the police department. Fingerprint dusting yielded no results, and not a bit of evidence was left behind. Joseph had to start thinking about working interstate with other departments. He hated working interstate.

A whistle made Morgan’s ears perch. Glancing over her shoulder, she looked out the window to see the crowd of curious passerby and reporters—journalists and television news alike—pressing against the yellow caution tape regardless of the police’s advances against them. Jed was staring at her, his lips pulling into a silly smile as he waved openly towards her. His head sort of angled towards the side before he disappeared into the crowd.

“Is there anything else?” Morgan asked, pulling Joseph from his deep concentration.

He shook his head, “Just get the photos to me by… shit, you already know.”

A smile graced her lips, tired looking much like her worn eyes. Slipping out the back door, she tried her best to avoid the annoying crowd and made her way down the sidewalk. Morgan adjusted her leather bag, her fingers brushing back her unruly bangs. She felt sweaty from her session with her horse. Greatly did she long to stand under the hot shower and just let the streams fall over her. It was the closest she could get to a massage. That terrible smell was stuck in her nose. The clouded eyes and saggy yet stiff face of the dead man made her fingers tremble, and she pulled them into fists and crossed her arms to control herself. No way, nuh uh. She wasn’t going to think about it, at least that’s what she told herself, but it was difficult not to. Sometimes it got hard, and she needed a distraction.

“Hey!”

Morgan spun around, spotting Jed hiding behind the wide trunk of a tree that stood just behind the sidewalk. He was wearing his usual getup, with a baby blue button down, navy dress pants and a tie some flat shade of charcoal grey. That startled expression fixed into something far more irritable. Almost instantly she turned away. Jed chased after her.

“Hey, Morgan, wait up!” he called, taking her shoulder. As she turned, she lets out a defiant little noise. That grin on his face shrunk away and turned into worry. She wasn’t expecting that. “You okay?”

“Yes,” she said curtly. As he stared some more, she could feel a hot sensation growing in her stomach.

“No you’re not…”

She sighed, dropping her arms, “Why am I surprised you’re here?” Because he was a reporter after all, and wherever there were cops, there’d be somebody like him. The foggy blue of his eyes rested on her hardened face, her muscles cringing beneath the attention and… damn, she was trying to play herself off as indifferent, but she was having a rough time.

“It was bad, wasn’t it?”

“Always,” she scoffed, “It’s always bad. _Always_. What do you expect? It’s murder.” Placing a hand over her temple, she massaged away the headache. Only that made it worse. It was already two in the afternoon, meaning she didn’t have to get the photos to Joseph right away. The morning would be fine, but at the same time she didn’t know if she’d be available. Some new dead bloke might show up in the middle of the night, forcing her awake, only to dive nose deep into yet another dead body. Another case. Another patch of bright red and blue lights flashing over a crowd of loud people wanting to know what was happening. Another overwhelming gust of the stench of rotting flesh, slapping her square in the face and tossing up her stomach. She was far better at handling things than this, but a case like this wasn’t something that happened every day. She was used to drug overdoses, to boyfriends outing their girlfriends or wives poisoning their husbands. To kids taking bullying too far, or hit and runs, or homeless people wasting away forgotten beneath the bridge in Roseville Public Park.

Not a string of murders from some sadistic killer. Not this.

“Nice pants,” he commented. Morgan blinked, glancing down and… oh, yeah. She’d forgotten she was wearing her riding gear. “They complement you _really_ well.” Since they were tight, and form fitting. A pout played over her face, the man only waggling his brows cheekily. “Lunch on me again? Did you like the bistro we went to yesterday?”

“Not as much as you did, apparently,” she said flat out, trying to ignore that flirty look on his face. Jed only chuckled. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, I’m just not used to seeing you dressed like this. Like, with your hair back, and the leather boots and all. It’s nice. Spunky.”

Her reflexes called her to cringe, but as her nose wrinkled and she looked at that fumbling— _not_ smug—smile on his face, she felt her lips do the opposite. Morgan smiled, a chuckle rumbling from her throat, and Jed’s grin brightened at that.

“Oh?” he mused, “Getting soft on me now?”

“Not on your life,” that sweetness she’d displayed dispersed immediately. Turning on her leather heels, Morgan walked towards her car with Jed pursuing so close behind that she smelt his deodorant. “This is horse riding gear,” she commented.

Jed gasped like a child, “Wait, you _ride_ a horse? Like, your **_own_** horse?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly he was in front of her, walking backwards as he faced her fully. That perfectly white smile of his reflected the sun _right_ into her eyes. “You have **got** to let me see,” he urged. No, pleaded. A little boy was begging to see the horse right in front of her. For a second, she felt her heart twist. It was laughable, but oddly charming. Morgan rose a brow, the arch so high that she could see Jed’s neck extend with it.

“Aren’t you a grown adult?”

“Yeah, b-but,” and then he stumbled a bit, having strike a rock with the heel of his foot. The man stabilized as Morgan gripped tightly on his sides. Another smirk graced his rigid face, “I’ve… always wanted to ride a horse. It was my dream to be a cowboy as a kid.”

“You’re gonna need balance for one,” she grunted, releasing him and carrying on towards her car. Jed came tumbling after like an annoying dog.

“Please?”

“…”

Damn, that’d meant she’d have to give her address to him, right? A puff of air flew from her lungs, blowing the stray strands of hair she’d missed to tie up. It was hot out. She was sure sweat stains were forming under her pits. Or worse, her butt. Rubbing her nose, she tried to get that awful smell still caked deep in her sinuses. “… 266 Trail West, Greenbriar, 55511.” She said it, fast; Jed stared dumbfounded with those big ol’ eyes like she’d talked a different language. When his mind finally caught up to the realization, he was messily digging into his front pocket and scrambling it down on the palm of his hand.

With red ink.

Good, she wasn’t going to repeat herself anyway. Mostly, she was hoping he’d written it down wrong and end up driving in endless circles. A bit of her sort of didn’t, though, and that drew her to bite her tongue.

“I’ll get changed and then come straight over!”

Morgan paused, turning her heel to give him a perplexed look. “Don’t you have work to do?” But he was already running off, a kick to his step while he hummed some made up tune. _Yes!_ It was raspy and hushed bellow of excitement that she could barely hear as he drew further away. The woman rubbed her palms together, watching the sweat peel away like old skin. Hopefully he’d forget all about her, the pony, and the address.

Yet, as she had waited by her front window for nearly an hour, just to see him pull up in the driveway, her heart had done a strange mix of sinking and racing. “Dammit,” she grumbled, shoulders drooping at the sight of him slipping out of his little sedan with basketball shorts and flip flops. Morgan snorted—she’d probably should have told him to wear closed-toe shoes. “Oh well,” she hummed, observing Jed standing at her front porch like a man ready to ask a guy for his daughter on prom night. As he pressed the doorbell once, and then twice, and then tree times, with his tongue sticking out and eyebrows pinching into a “v” in the middle, she chuckled cruelly to herself. Yeah, her doorbell was broken, and he’d thought pressing it harder would make it work.

 _What a loser,_ she thought, but Morgan’s smirk slowly faded.

Why was she _enjoying_ this so much?

A scoff, a growl, and Morgan stood up so fast her back popped. The front door swung open, Jed jumping like a startled cat. “Geez! You startled me… you live really far out in the boonies, huh?”

“Yep,” she mumbled, her mood soured by her disturbing discovery as she led him through the front room, to the kitchen, and out the back porch. Jed followed blindly, his eyes staring at every little thing in her home. Photographs of mountains and mossy terrain, some pictures of her youth in college, farm-styled furniture… an otherwise clean house. Far more decorated than his own, but not so much that the home was a dust magnet. Jed sighed contently at the fresh breeze that engulfed his face as they exited the back door just by the kitchen. A field of bright green grass and some dirty patches was framed with wooden fence posts connected by chicken wire. A stream was running nearby, having been stoned up but flowing through a metal pipe too small for pesky vermin larger than a field mouse to squeeze through. The fields were peppered with those little yellow flowers like made her think of sunflowers. The goats bleated yet again, running around their little area, splashing into the mud still present from the dewy morning and instantly regretting it. Their legs were caked with dirt and they wiggled dry, hating to be wet. The way Jed’s eyes lit up truly were like that of a child’s, his mouth agape as he’d finally fallen silent; he’d been blabbering on about all sorts of things since he’d gotten there.

Morgan watched him approach the pen, his hands wrapping around the old, rotting wood as he leaned forward to stare at them with a lopsided smile. Amusement danced in his river blue eyes, his super white teeth reflecting the sun. He lets out a breathy laugh.

“You have _goats?_ ”

“Just these two: Pinto and Lentils. Pinto’s the brown one, Lentils, the white one, is her mother.”

Because she loved beans, though she would never tell him that. The least she needed was to be dragged to a Mexican restaurant, or to have dinner at his place only to discover 16-bean soup roasting in his hot pot. Morgan’s stomach grumbled at the thought, because chances are, he’d make it amazing like the meatloaf he’d prepped for them the weak prior. Swatting away the little flies from her face, she waited patiently for him to get his farm animal fix. It wasn’t often she’d gotten company, and even less so often someone from the city got so close to nature. He’d come all the way from Chicago and thought that a home in Roseville was quiet. She didn’t doubt it was, but in a sense, she pitted him.

He really never did live out quite as secluded as she did.

As they began to chew on the yellow flowers, Jed asked questioningly, “Is it okay for them to eat that stuff?”

“They love weeds. That’s just wandering ox eye. Nothing dangerous,” she explained.

“Oh… are they like pets?”

Morgan shook her head, “I milk them, but they’re dried out for the season.”

Jed rose a brow, “Dried?”

“Oh, sorry. Farm talk. They aren’t making milk anymore. With the cases lately, I don’t have time to milk them, and it’s uncomfortable for them if I let their utters get too full. So, I dried them out. The male died a while back. He was pretty old though. The guy was shooting blanks.”

“Ouch, that’s mean. Say you want milk again, how do you get them to make it?” he asked. Morgan chuckled.

“Mate them. Once they give birth, I let the kids feed a bit, and when they’re old enough I milk them by hand. They’d keep making until I decide to stop.” Of course, there was more to it, but she didn’t want to recite an essay to him. The man only nodded in silent bewilderment; he was probably one of those people who didn’t know that chickens laid eggs all the time. With a sigh she stretched her arms far over her head, her mewling noise catching Jed’s attention.

“Oh, yeah, stretching sounds like a good idea!”

And there he was, doing the same. A series of loud pops echoed from his back. It made her wince, and she watched after his form treading through the thick, grassy field towards the stable on the far end of the property. “Where’s that horse!” he exclaimed, “Is it in it’s house?”

House? Geez, she couldn’t imagine ever taking this guy seriously. In the stable, she saw him light up even brighter—was that even possible? Jed reached forward and patted the horse’s nose, commenting on how soft it was. “Is it a girl, too?” Morgan didn’t answer, and when Jed looked down, he’d seen it was, in fact, a stallion. A dry cough came from him, “Never had an animal make me feel small before, if you know what I mean.”

Another chuckle from her. Oops, she didn’t want to make him feel at home, but given the cheeky smile and the way he was touching her horse _without_ permission, she figured it was too late. _Just like his butt on my car,_ she thought.

“You gonna teach me how to put on a saddle?” he asked. Morgan tilted her head. Jed cleared his throat, “I’m gonna ride on him right? I mean, I don’t wanna assume-”

“Oh, you’re riding him,” she hummed, seeing the relief form on his face. Then she felt a cruel idea blossom in her mind. “You’re riding Nespar alright, _bareback_.”

Then it was gone—that smile—having lowered into an expression of utter questioning. Of seconding guessing. Hell, maybe even of fear. Giving the man a wink, she brushed past him and escorted her horse out. Tall—it was tall—but now that it was time to mount him, it seemed a bit taller for Jed than before. He gulped as she fixed that metal bar in its mouth, beyond its front teeth and just before it’s back molars. It chewed on the strange object, not really giving the invasion much thought. The nostrils pulled back, blowing out so much air that Jed’s eyes closed shut for a moment. With the lead in her hands, she clicked, the horse’s feet coming to a halt. It stood stead in waiting. Jed didn’t really know what to do.

“… uhh.”

“Go on,” she said, “Get on his back.”

Surprisingly, he did. Or at least tried. Jed tried and tried, having leapt up and over only to slide back down. The stallion stood there, waiting patiently, and a few times she had to tap Jed on the thighs. “Keep your feet away from his,” she warned, because he was _still_ in flipflops. There was red on Jed’s cheeks, and she couldn’t tell if it was from the embarrassment or from all the energy, he’d been exerting trying to just freaking mount the damn thing.

“… one foot up,” she said, and reluctantly he listened. Cupping her hands, Jed placed his foot on her palms and hoisted himself up. When he finally was able to get on the horse, he had laid his stomach long its back and hung down the other side. Like a piece of wet laundry on a clothing line. He grinned, sheepishly, up at her. “Fix yourself,” she ordered.

“Yes, ma’am!”

Jed adjusted himself, sitting almost proudly upon Nespar. He was high up, far taller than her now, and there a content sigh blew from his lungs. With a few clicks the horse was walking forward, Morgan’s finger looping around the belt strapped on the side of it’s face, and with it lead in his hands Jed struggled to sit comfortably on it. Soon, he swayed with its motions, learning how to rest comfortably along the flesh of its back. At first it was dizzying but soon became soothing, like he’d been being rocked side to side.

“When did you get into horses?” he asked.

Morgan cut through the field and began escorting Jed and her horse along the fence line. “I used to do part time work in a farm up in Colorado when I was a kid. The owner trained show horses, and she taught me how to prepare the mares for riding sessions. Then she figured she’d teach me, too. Made the job a whole lot easier.”

“Oh, so you’re not from here, either?”

“Not originally, no,” she hummed, looking up at him beneath the brim of her hat. “What made you want to be a reporter instead of a cowboy,” she teased, Jed grinning widely forward. He looked like he was enjoying himself.

“That was a kid dream!” he insisted rather defensively. And then his shoulders drooped, “I actually didn’t know what I wanted to do. I used to be the president of the newspaper club in high school. Writing was easy for me.” Another cheeky grin, “Anything else you’d like to know while we’re on the subject of me?”

A shrug from Morgan, “Don’t think there’s anything worth knowing.”

Jed gasped, feigning distress with an arm over his sweaty forehead, “How your words slay me! And here I thought you were finally falling in love with me.”

“My ass,” she grumbled.

“Is cute, I know. Especially in those pants.”

Oh, she didn’t like that. With a firm spank she sent her horse trotting forward, Jed crying out in surprise at the sudden burst of speed. He was doing well, his thighs bracing as he leaned forward to try and regain his balance, Morgan dusting her hands off with a _forced_ glare over her face. A burning shade of pink was flooding her cheeks. The liquid white heat spreading in her chest she wished was caused by rage, but it wasn’t. Hands touched her backside, pretending to stick her fingers into her pockets, but she knew better. For starters, she didn’t even have pockets, and secondly, she was actually feeling up her butt.

Did it really look nice?

When the horse came to a standstill, Jed lost his balance and fell straight into the thick layer of weeds. It’d felt like her heart jumped straight into her throat, Morgan’s eyes rearing open wide when he didn’t get back up. Darting forward, she called out his name worriedly and fell to his side.

“Jed! Fuck, I’m sorry, are you okay!?” she cried out, hands grasping his chest and… he was breathing. Not only that, but he was staring blankly into the blue sky, his eyes reflecting the puffy white clouds of the nice autumn day. Warm, but not nearly as hot as summer. When he looked at her, she saw her reflection in those eyes. One of panic and concern, that resting bitch face she always wore completely gone. Slowly he smiled, every tooth like ivory carved out and mantled upon his gums. The prickly bristles on his chin and jowls glistened a shade of light brown, almost blond, and if she looked hard enough, she could see a faint beauty mark just off to the side near his nose. There were light, almost invisible, freckles along his cheek bones, and Morgan remembered that cute childhood photo of him in his youth. A little kid with freckles that he hadn’t quite grown out of like she assumed.

_Don’t stare… don’t stare don’t stare._

But she was, at first in a flustered sense, and then in confusion when he started to laugh breathlessly into the weeds clinging against his arms and legs. There were yellow flowers everywhere: wandering ox eye.

“H-Hey… say something Jed you’re making me worried.”

“… You said my name.”

 _Huh?_ Cheeks burned, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. Rolling her gaze away, Morgan stood abruptly and grabbed her horse’s lead, not even bothering to help him out of the hole he’d made. Yeah, it was her fault, but damn did he piss her off sometimes. A strangled noise came from his lips, Jed fumbling forward and grasping the dirt to help himself up.

“I’ve gotta say, the more I learn about you the more surprised I get. I would have never expected you to be into the whole farming thing. What else is there? Are you a superhero too?”

She ignored that. Inside, she gave him a down to wipe the dirt from his skin. With a glass of juice in his hands he sipped away at the pink liquid—guava lemonade—and stared up comfortably at the photos lining the bar area. Alternating between black and white to colored, he started from the beginning.

Birds on the highest tops of Florida pines, still waters in a lake from a preserve nearby, herself upon a horse in midair as they leapt over a jump bar. Nice photos. Normal photos.

“Which is your favorite?” he asked. Morgan was scrubbing some old dishes in a sink with suds of soap, the sponge swollen in her hands with hot water. Glancing over her shoulder, she didn’t even bother to look them over. She’d taken almost every single one.

“None of them.”

They were too nice. Too normal.

Jed’s teeth clanked against the rim of the glass, the cool towel sitting over his head as he looked over at her with a gaze that told her that he was far from satisfied with that answer. “Which one is your most favorite you’ve ever taken?” he asked. Morgan’s nose crinkled, _why did he want to know so damn much?_ In spite of herself, Morgan dried off her hands and disappeared in her office for a bit. When Jed entered, she’d already pulled out a few photo albums. Small prints, matte mostly, were nestled away safely in the various sleeves. Once she reached a certain page, she stopped and thought to herself. If she showed it, it could have been taken in two different ways. Either way, did she really care what he thought of her?

“This one,” she mumbled after taking a considerate amount of time debating on it. As Jed peered over her shoulder, he spotted a black and white photograph of a canyon side overlooking what was most certainly a steep drop, various lush mountain peaks in the distance and…

There was a corpse of a hog lying on the side. How it died, she never found out, but it had been a while. Not quite centered on it, but rather it was off to the side. The husks reached skyward, the flesh looking dry and there were little white dots along the wounds. Maggots were eating away at it. Otherwise, there were small flowers sprouting around it and to the side that made Jed think of spring, and the greenery lush, and thick, and various shades of grey. He didn’t really say anything, only stared intently at the photo.

Morgan was cringing, and she hated that she was.

“It was before I got my degree. I… it fascinated me. Seeing something so disturbing around such a lively place,” the explanation was a struggle to give, her voice turning rusty as her throat began to feel dry. “When I was a kid my family never talked to me about death. One day my uncle died, and I went to his funeral and he looked like a doll. No smell, no gore. Just laying there. When I took this, I realized what it was really like. No matter how pretty we can make it, it still happens,” she mumbled, staring at the flowers blooming in the still picture. Flowers that were long dead by now. “And life goes on around regardless of what dies. Even people. Dust to dust.”

_Dust to dust._

Maybe there was more to it, but she couldn’t remember right now. If anything, Morgan felt embarrassed that she’d disclosed _too much_ about herself. As she took in a nice slow breath to try and calm her nerves, she looked up to catch Jed staring. But not at her. No, at the photograph still. He hadn’t blinked, he hadn’t made a noise or a move to put the book down. That glance of his was hard, closing in on the picture. The rotten boar on the side of the cliff edge, wasting away, back to dust.

And Jed kept staring, not a breath escaping his parted lips. Like it seriously, severely struck him.

Like a light bulb went off in his head.

“Jed?”

A blink. Two blinks. He came to and looked down at her with an expression that was disconnected from the world. He’d heard her, but his mind was somewhere else, far away and lost in some deep thought. “Did I… freak you out?” she said too quietly, too nervously, and she hated herself for it. Not long after he closed the book with a loud slap and held it out before her, the distant look on his face changing back to his usual self. A nice, big, annoying smile was spreading over his cheeks.

“Pfft, no. I was just surprised. I thought you hated dead things.”

With the album in her grasp she placed it on her work desk, all cluttered with print outs, evidence forums, and wildly written notes. “People shouldn’t hate what’s inevitable.” A sigh flew from her nose. The tips of her fingers felt a bit cold from the harsh air conditioning in her house. As the silence grew awkward, Jed took notice to a cross hanging on the wall. He made a surprised noise.

“I didn’t take you for the religious type,” he commented. Morgan gave him a sideways glance, and she wanted to glare. It just didn’t come out as naturally anymore as she’d hoped for.

“I’d go insane without it. After everything I’ve seen, the only thing that’s got me running is hope.”

Jed was frowning, “You don’t… always deal with murder cases, do you? Not like with the Ghostface.”

And she was silent. She hadn’t been so disturbed from the thought of work in so long. A flash of white showed up in the back of her mind, just behind her eyes. It was that creepy white mask. The mask, with the man behind it. The man who left that message.

Ghostface.

**_I’m thinking about you. Do you think about me too?_ **

She didn’t know why, but she had some inkling that those messages were meant for her. It felt like it, at least. Fingers clenching the sides of her pants, Morgan pulled off her hat and tossed it to a chair on the side. Her hair was freed from its ponytail, the heat building around her scalp lifting instantly like steam from a hot spring. With a content sigh, she scratched to puff out her hair. When she was done, she caught Jed staring.

Staring hard.

“Uh,” he stumbled with his words, his cheesy smile eating away at his lips. Morgan rose a brow, then instantly remembered that he was in _her_ house. And that _he_ was _her_ guest. Which meant that he was simply standing there with nothing to do.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, Jed processing the question rather slowly.

“A little. Why, are you offering to cook for me?” he mused.

Morgan frowned again, the irritation coming back. “I’m only doing it out of politeness.”

“Hey, that’s fine with me! As long as you don’t mind me pretending that we’re married hahah- ** _OW_**!” Jed cried out, rubbing the spot in his side that she had just pinched. _Hard_.

“Something plain. And boring. And not of the housewife quality,” she gritted her teeth. The man only kept on smiling, tailing close behind her as if he were some helpless puppy.

“So, since you’ve finally said my name, when are we gonna upgrade it? I like _honey_ or _sweetheart_ , but babe is good too- ** _YEOUCH_**!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dropped paint everywhere and it got on my husband's favorite tie 3': noooo. Any ideas on how to get black acrylic off a silky, baby blue tie??
> 
> QUESTION OF THE CHAPTER: Which of the survivor cast would you want as teammates, assuming you were number 4? For me, I'd want Tapp (experience detective, probably harder to frighten since he's seen so much and would make a great leader), King (he's durable, self sacrificing, and tough), and Feng (very goal oriented, could help get gens done fast and efficient).


	11. Intimidation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghostface made things personal and left Morgan with a compelling message from the Entity. It isn't enough to stop Morgan. The Ghostface's made her angry, and now she has more of a reason to resist.

There was a massive ominous moon in the sky. Scarlet red, like wine or blood, with a light that cascaded down across the grassy plain. It made the eeriest of shadows stretch outward, almost like shadowy limbs, and it wrapped around her ankles. The fog was a spiraling vortex. The air was cold, but the ground was damp and warm. Such a contrary between the two—the breath of death flowing into her lungs, stark against the heat of the earth that felt as if it were radiating beneath her. Like a river of blood ran underneath all that peat and wet soil. Should she stab the ground itself, would it bleed, as she was now?

It was running out her shoulder—the liquid of life—making her hair matte and firm against the flesh of her neck. Sore thighs beat, but the pain was minimal, weak when compared to the torn tendon of her right ankle and the gaping mass on her left shoulder. There was so much blood, the pain and warmth were all she felt. Everything else was so numb. When was the last time she’d been in such pain?

When was the last time…?

… was there ever a time?

A gentle humming lingered in the air. Soothing, smooth like freshly wound silk, in yet in didn’t comfort her in the slightest. Morgan could barely see, everything was fuzzy. Accompanied with the blood loss, something else was making her overwhelmingly tired. Thick leather gloves were massaging into her scalp once again, her head nestled upon a lap beneath her. Legs crisscrossed, the malevolent killer was leaning against nothing in particular. Rather, he sat in the open field, surrounded by nothing but thick, wild hedges and slash pines. Only her head was on him, staring up into the patchy sky that the leaves and branches were blotting out. A white face was lingering overhead, staring at her intently. Though she couldn’t see the eyes, she could just _feel_ it. His stare. The movements, the singing, it was all so gentle yet possessive. Like he was cherishing this moment—living it up a little while longer—before it was time to close the curtain and wait for the next showing.

Her lungs weren’t penetrated, but she couldn’t breathe well. There was some invisible weight on her chest that could have been caused by anything. Still she gripped onto him, as if for dear life, with a look on her eyes that was distant. Dull. There was anger inside of her, but she couldn’t express it. Morgan was far too weak.

“… you know,” he said, slow and steady like a stream only moments from freezing over. Just the sound of his voice made her lose all the air she had in her lungs. Fingers were knotted into her messy, sweaty locks. There was blood in his hands, a mixture of her own and Tapp’s. It left her scalp feeling hot and grimy. “There was always something about you. Something that caught my eye… I have a good eye, you know? Always have since I was a kid.” He didn’t continue petting her, but his fingers remained, locked within her strands of deep dark hair with fingers pressed heavy against her skull. “Nothing about you struck me at first, but the more I _saw_ you, the more… interested I got.”

Every breath was small and weak. It was obvious she needed air; it explained the dizziness, the exhaustion, the burning pain within her lungs. But she couldn’t, like a fish out of water. No matter how much she pushed herself to gulp in that smelly, pungent, awfully nippy air—the type that left an ashy flavor on the surface of her tongue—it remained unachievable. For the first time ever, Morgan was dying.

And it terrified her beyond belief.

There were tears in her eyes. In any other situation, she’d be ashamed of crying. Right now, all she couldn’t think about was the impending. The panic. The temptation to beg. _Please,_ she thought, _I can’t breathe… I don’t want to die. Let me go… the hatch._

Despite the fear, she listened to him. His words didn’t feel so empty as they did… contemplative? It was bizarre to hear him speaking with such careful calculation. They way this killer meticulously picked out his words. He spoke so slow in an actual, true effort to express whatever the hell it was in his mind. About her.

About Morgan.

She held onto him tight, not to fight back anymore, but for dear life. Morgan was so scared that she didn’t even care who it was anymore. Touching him, feeling his warmth, it made her feel like she was just a centimeter high from total submersion. Incredible to think that it she would be so desperate for that minimal amount of closure.

“Seeing you like this. So gorgeous… _dying_ … but boring, too. Something’s missing.”

None of it made sense. It was nonsense spiraling out of control, almost like a foreign language was filling her ears. The tears were brimming out, falling over her lash line. Ghostface watched them fall, his breath staggering at the sight. He simply sighed out, _“So pretty.”_ They were like stars slipping from her eyes. Ghostface drank up the sight in silence.

_“… can’t…”_

He shifted at the weak sound of her voice.

_“… can’t… I…”_

Can’t what? Can’t breathe? Curiously he leaned over, his cloaked ear closing in near her mouth. She was scowling, not particularly at him, but at the situation. At the eminent death. Morgan shook her head, but barely, and squeezed her eyes shut tightly. _“D… ie…”_

**I can’t die.**

A low chuckle rumbled from his lungs as he straightened himself out to stare down at her. Still, even now, the pretty little Morgan was trying to fight off death. Really, it was entertaining for him, and she could tell by the way he slowly started to cackle. From soft and subtle, to near manic. As if struggling to contain himself he shook his head before gripping against her locks tightly. It stung, and she squeezed her eyes shut tighter.

“Ahh… I see what this is. You’re still fighting,” he pondered, giggly at the concept of her foolishness. Morgan listened to his little fit of laughter, watching the way he twitched beneath his horrid costume. “Seriously though? I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but newsflash beautiful. _You’re gonna fucking die._ ” A kneading feeling tingled in her skull as he rubbed her with his digits. “Yeah… reminds me of that problem I ran into. I couldn’t wait to get to the good part. Been planning so damn much to have you all for myself, but when the times came. Over and over again… I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t want it to end… that’s the whole point here. It’s inevitable, only you’ll keep coming back. It’s like a dream come true! I can do whatever I want, and you’ll always come back… _pretty_ and _healthy_ as ever. **_Forever_**. No ugly maggots… no nasty rotting,” he sighed. Slowly he tilted his head lower, observing the sight of her life tethering, fleeting far away. “And the real deal’s way better than anything this baby can capture,” he mumbled. There was a shuffling sound. Morgan opened her eyes and expected to see the knife positioned over her eyes, but as he retrieved a small, silver camera from some hidden compartment in his coat, she felt her breathing stagger.

Morgan’s eyes shot open, the once pearly whites of her sclera now tainted pink from all the exertion and pain leading up to this point. A point where it felt so much more gruesome. There was pain in every fiber of her body, undoubtedly so, but Morgan reached up with her good arm. The movements were slow and shaky, but she somehow managed to wrap her fingers around his clothed bicep. The fabric was thick with a weird coated texture much like the scrap left behind in an earlier case that felt like ages ago. The muscle was big—she couldn’t even wrap her whole hand around his arm. Upon contact, he stopped everything. Moving, touching, humming.

It was dead silent.

When her hand gripped onto him tighter than he expected, Ghostface grunted with a low **_huh?_**

That camera in his nasty hands.

She _knew_ that camera.

Deep, empty breathes were puffing out her lips. She tried so hard to breath, but there was barely any air left in her lungs to stay conscious, let alone speak. But as Morgan watched with eyes peeled wide open, her grip surprisingly strong coming from a wavering limb coated in sweat, dirt, and blood, she gasped out, “… Jed.”

Ghostface froze, his body turning absolutely tense at the sound of that name. He was ever still now, like a statue, watching and observing her scrunching face. Eyebrows angled low, her nose crinkled and irises quivering beneath dark eyes. “T-That’s… Jed’s…” she trembled, but it was a weird mixture of terrified and seething. As she bit her tongue to stay awake, it managed to help hold back the creeping darkness that was forming along the corners of her vision. Morgan coughed rough and curtly, her vision turning blurry. But not from the approaching death, but rather from tears.

“What did… you…”

She wanted to ask it so bad but was petrified of the answer.

_What did you do to Jed?_

Squeaky leather resonated above her. It was a gut-wrenching sound. The masked madman let out a breath that was staggering, but she couldn’t quite hear it. Beneath her grip she could feel his muscles quaking, his arm quivering, the camera still hovering over her feeble form. She was crying silently, the hot tears burning their way down.

“Hadn’t he… been…!”

_Hadn’t he **been** through **enough**?!_

Screaming, she was screaming in her mind, but her body wouldn’t let him have it. So she settled for squeezing as hard as she could, gritted her teeth until they hurt so damn bad from the pressure building up. Lowering the camera down towards the grass, Ghostface leaned in so close that she could hear his breathing. Hot, heavy, sort of unevenly paced. Surely, it was humid in that mask. Latex gave off a stench that made her a new level of nauseous. The warmth of his body was overwhelming her, swallowing her whole, and though the freezing cold was far from welcoming, she’d rather recoil to the misty fog instead. Yet her body was weak, void of energy to do any more than shiver and quake. Ghostface spoke slow, deadly, deep.

**_“…do you…_ like _… him…?”_**

Morgan bit down hard on her tongue and could but only glare at that terrible, terrible mask.

**_“Do you…_ love… _him?”_**

Amusement was bouncing in his tone. Morgan couldn’t fight the tears from spilling when a thought crossed her mind. Of Jed, sprawled dead on the ground. Sinew and entrails and blood painting a portrait of suffering. Totally and utterly massacred, even beyond recognition, just after going to bed thinking that tomorrow was another day to come. A day where he could bother her yet _again._ Being the gentleman she never deserved. Calling her phone, visiting her home after work, taking her out for lunch. On him, like always.

And she was there snapping photos with that dead, dull, distant look in her face. For work.

Like she did with _everyone_ _else_.

She didn’t know what to do, but without even knowing it she was screaming. She screamed and screamed bloody murder and dread out into the cold air, straight into his face. Loose globs of spit splattered over his mask, her lungs burning as she emptied them of any residual air that was left. After that, she kept the screaming. Didn’t stop, not until she was done scolding him. Burn—he deserved so much to **burn.**

Ghostface didn’t react, didn’t jolt, didn’t gasp. Only stared silently, motionlessly, even after she finally stopped. Even after the echoing of her piercing voice silenced in the distance, and the wallowing of distant startled crows fell into a deathly silence. All they could hear was her frantic breathing, her lungs somehow finding their bearing as she swallowed in the bitter air. Tired, her arm fell, resting idly upon his thigh of all places. That glare of hers didn’t diminish, even after such an exhausting feat. No words were spoken from her end, but her eyes. They told him everything.

An answer he wasn’t expecting.

“… want to know what I did to him?”

She’d blinked, the angry look in her eyes transitioning just slightly into one of shock. Did she really? A part of her was far too scared to know, but also doubted heavily that he would admit it so easily. Petting her head so preciously once again, she watched him petrified as he had closed in on her even more so.

“Find out who I am, and I’ll tell you if he’s still alive or not,” he said, and Morgan didn’t know what to think. It was too hard, so hard to. And as she was about to find the courage to curse him, he whispered something too obscure for her to understand at first.

_“I’ll give you a little hint. You already know who I am…”_

Morgan stopped breathing. What he suggested… was that true?

Did she really know who this man was, the whole time?

There was a flicker of red beneath the black fabric concealing his eyes. For a moment, Ghostface shifted above her in a staggering sort of way. Like he’d come to and back again. With a shaky hand he’d left the camera alone and picked up something that made her blood run cold. _“Shit… shit! Not now, gimmie more time… just a lil’ more… been waitin’ so long!”_ his whispers were violent and guttural. As if arguing with some invisible third person, Ghostface continued to grit his teeth beneath a ragged breath. _“What? That wasn’t part of the deal, fuckin’… you said I…!”_ She could only watch, equal parts mortified and perplexed, the knife in his hand shaking with resistance. Finally, defeatedly, he sighed, the bright red aura like a constant burn glistening in his eyes. Morgan hadn’t noticed that he’d been lacking them until just now.

He paused, “…it’s got a little message for you,” he muttered bitterly, like he didn’t enjoy how things were panning out; like he wasn’t really _himself_. _“Play by the rules.”_

Before Morgan could digest his words, she saw his arm jerk swiftly. It was quick, at first discomforting, but then it was searing. When Morgan gasped the taste of iron invaded her mouth. With her body convulsing, and her panic rising, she barely even noticed what’d happened. The blood came flowing out from the fresh wound, her hands wanting desperately to grasp onto the inflicted area. Ghostface hushed her sweetly, his hands petting into her hair once more. Just moments ago he was rigid, robotic even, when he spoke those last words. For dear life she gripped onto his pants, his sleeves, his arms, the tears blinding her and the air she was reflexively gasping being nothing but hot liquid. The suffering began to decline, but it was a slow downfall. Long, painful, agonizing.

Until then, he was comforting her in his own way. Surprisingly gentle, patient as she passed despite her attempting to slam her fists against his broad chest and fight him, weakly at that. Fingers hooked upward, barely tugging on the long chin of the ghostly mask. It pinched beneath her fingers, but she couldn’t yank it off. Her struggling began to slow down. Before all became dark, she swore she saw the flash of a camera light.

**_“Good luck, Morgan.”_ **

It all went dark.

Cold and dark.

There was no closure. No rest. Not even a short little moment of peace. As Morgan came to, she’d awoke with a violent jolt and a gasp that burned more than it should have. Almost like her lungs had been ripped open and breathed for the very first time. She cried, though now intentionally, but rather instinctually. Tears flowed out for what seemed like forever, and for the first few minutes she didn’t even notice the people around her, coaxing and comforting her. Tapp was rubbing her back tell her it was okay. That whatever happened was done with and she was back at the fire. Claudette attempted to grasp her sweaty, shaking hands, hushing her shaking meekly as Tapp asked question. “Calm down Morgan, he’s gone! You’re back!” Morgan had been clawing violently at her throat, utterly in disbelief at the fact that the hole was completely mended. As if it never happened. No scar or pain or nothing.

Just… the memory. The trauma.

That was the true damage.

“Shit, who was that guy?” Ace shuddered.

“I’ve seen him before, I tried to tell you, but you were taken away before I got the chance. I’m sorry Morgan,” Feng cried, the guilt evident in her face. With a cold sweat, Morgan pushed passed them a little abruptly before standing. She felt dizzy, moments from vomiting, so she steadied herself in a hunch and took slow, deep breaths. Once people started leaving her alone, they began discussing the new killer, the new course of actions.

Hell, if the little plan was even worth it anymore. That was starting to look like a **no.**

It struck Morgan that it was her first ever death. The first of… of _many_.

It… wouldn’t be the only time.

For a while she was crouching before the fire, her fingers in her hair and her eyes peeled wide open as she stared at the glittering pieces of gravel on the ground. So many thoughts that she’d usually go over were gone. Inside her brain was nothing but silence. She couldn’t think. Not after that. Morgan’s mind fell silent, perhaps to try and recuperate after all that had occurred. Phantom pains lingered—for a second she thought she was bleeding again. For a moment, she thought her ankle was about to give out from the wound that was no longer present. People were worried, while others waited for her episode to pass. They were normal, after all. That’s probably what disturbed her the most.

“Did you notice we’re all here?” Meg asked, and as Morgan took a secretive glance around from behind her locks, she noticed that indeed many, if not _all_ , of the survivors were present.

Ash gritted his teeth, “Must be random… don’t think too much about it.”

A sudden touch to her shoulder made Morgan nearly screech, her body tumbling back into a defensive crawl. It was detective Tapp, his hands held up away from her as she scurried in place for a second. “Hey, relax. It’s just me. How’re you holding up?”

“Tapp…”

He knelt before her, his wounds long gone, and the bulletproof vest restored to its former glory. There was a very serious look in his eyes as he carefully questioned her, “That’s the guy you were running from when you first got here, wasn’t it?” Not even a nod, but she stared hard at his dark eyes and he could tell her answer. Understandingly he touched her shoulder, rubbed her tender area where the wound had once been with his thumb. “I know how you feel,” was all he said, and she believed him. The pig, he’d been chasing her, just as fervently as she’d been chasing him. All the way here, where she treated him quite bitterly compared to the others. So gruesome were the ways she had tortured him when they were brought together once again. Much like Laurie and her older brother, which never seemed to show any signs of emotion and yet went out of his way to pursue her. Even amid a chase he would stop in his tracks at the faintest sight, sound, or smell of her in passing and completely switch targets. Tapp knew, and he was warning Morgan that chances were the same would happen to her. Ghostface would stop at nothing to get her, except different. He didn’t care about his performance, his streaks, his anything when she was in the picture. Her and only her.

“He said things to me. Said that I knew who he really was, and even told me to try and find out. I know why, and I won’t let it beat me, but it’s hard. I just need to pull myself together,” she explained, at least to somebody, that way the rest weren’t worrying about her. After all, she’d always resonated well with cops.

Tapp understood that, because he felt it odd that the killer would let them all get away for some privacy with just one measly person. Not without some history. As he got up to leave her be, Morgan was left with her spiraling emotions and thoughts, the desire to wretch returning to her silently heaving stomach. As she hid her head low between her knees and shrunk further into herself, she could hear a few concerned whispers on the other side of the camp circle.

“Do you think she’ll be alright?” Kate asked to someone from the other side of the fire. Morgan was too focused on nothing to see who it was.

“I don’t know. I’m not used to seeing her like this, though. It’s killing me,” Jeff mumbled.

Tapp wasn’t far off, his words barely audible as he intentionally whispered. _“I saw him… only cared for her… must be… personal… need to do what we can.”_ Her legs started to hurt from the awkward position she was in, but she didn’t have the heart to adjust herself. Morgan continued to hold herself up despite the slow burn creeping deep in her calves.

Hold up, right, that’s what she was trying to do. Morgan squeezed her eyes shut and counted the seconds. Held back the tears. A vision of a carcass flashed over the darkness behind her lids, and it looked like that torn up body of Jed she’d imagined before.

**_Jed… please be okay Jed…_ **

She wanted him: to be okay, to annoy her, to comfort her. Though she understood what was happening. It was all an elaborate scheme into breaking her down. Psychological onslaughts, starting with paranoia and then working its way up as it slowly ate its way through her defenses. A fist came and knocked at her noggin a little too hard, but she didn’t care. She wanted to sock those thoughts away, as much as she did worry about him. Worrying would do nothing, not without solid evidence that what Ghostface claimed what true.

Determining what went down wasn’t an option, not now, and perhaps never if the bastard didn’t keep to his word. And that was assuming she knew who he really was.

_Who can he be?_

And like that, a thousand different faces popped into her mind. So many options, but no way of pinpointing who. Perhaps thinking about it wasn’t going to help her. So… what now?

With a deep, slow breath into her wet nostrils, Morgan slung her head back and stared up into the starless, black sky. Damn… if only there were stars, then she’d feel a bit better. “Hope,” she whispered to herself. To be expectant. To wait for, longingly, without question or falter. Regardless of what life may bring. Death—the death they faced here in this strange place—they weren’t really, truly deaths, were they? They were mimicked, faked, pathetic resemblances of the real thing. Even in the Void did they live, only lost forever in that dark plain of existence. In the end, no matter how brutal, she’d always come back. That’s what Ghostface said.

First, she had to train herself into not being afraid of it.

 _It’s got a little message for you_. _Play by the rules._

It _._

**It.**

Oh, she’d realized something. Something very pivotal, important, perceptive changing. Such a message only suggested that it was bothered by something, right? Dropping her arms, she adjusted herself suddenly and glanced around the other survivors. Scattered, mingling yet disdained. Like how she’d first found them.

“…Kate, do you know any Neil Diamond?” Morgan asked. Kate, a bit surprised that she’d come out of her sulk so quickly, smiled a little before tuning her guitar a bit. Soon she was strumming the chords, playing the song that should have been the most familiar to everyone. Morgan sighed, like she’d taking a drink after being dehydrated for so long. Hearing the music really did something. Lifted her up and made her feel absolutely satiated. Kate had a beautiful voice. Rich and creamy, smoothing out over the freezing air and rumbling fire. People were returning towards the center, huddling close and enjoying the company, the music, the sensations that things felt remotely normal again. Lord, she hated singing. She hated making herself so open, and noticeable, and social. But they needed this, she needed this.

 _Dying_ wasn’t going to make her stumble.

“Hands, touching hands! Reaching out, touching me, touching you! Sweet Caroline,” she sang.

 _“Bum, bum, bum!”_ came Ace slapping his thighs like drums, “Good times never seemed so good~.”

“So good, so good, so good!” came a small handful of voices merging together, knowing the song, knowing how it went and what real life **_felt_** like again.

“I’d be inclined, to believe they never would!” Morgan’s voice was raspy, she wanted to scream. She felt so damaged, so exhausted, but she kept on singing. Kept at it like it was a fight for her life, resisting against the urge to crumble back down to her knees. To want to hide away into the forest, only to be picked off back into another trial, where she’d most certainly die after being in such a destroyed mental state. Again, and again, and again.

 _No,_ she thought as she sang the lyrics like she’d been drinking at a karaoke bar, because she didn’t mind the real, genuine laughing from King clapping his but dusty hands at the sight of her dancing in circles around the fire and the lopsided smile from Dwight observing from a log between Feng and Laurie. _No, I won’t die. Not again, not like that. No so easily. I’m going to live… we’re going to live!_

**“Sweeeeet Caroline!”**

**“BUM, BUM, BUMM~.”**

When the chord being strung sounded terribly off, someone in the group whispered her name. “Kate, you okay?” All turned to see Kate with her skin whited over and her eyes reared open like plates. The small group couldn’t help but look out towards the dark stretch of plain that usually—according to those who tired to run through it blindly—led to nothing. It was the patchy, grassy plain they’d sprint through when escaping through the gates from a trial. One could always see the fire and those around it in it, but they could never see behind them. It was endless, and never took them further out than several hundred yards. Slowly, with a cold sweat rolling from her back, Morgan looked over her shoulder to see something she wasn’t expecting.

A mask.

A killer.

It was Ghostface, watching from deep in the fog. A nervous Dwight jumped up with a choked cry, his glasses crooked as he’d nearly tripped into the warm fire. “W-What’s that?”

Morgan’s voice cracked in disbelief, “It’s Ghostface…”

“Why is he watching us?” he responded with terror.

Feng whimpered, hiding behind the frightened manager. King, alongside Ash, Steve, and Jeff, had approached the front of the group beside Morgan protectively, his glare evident, but she could feel the quivering of his muscles as he brushed against the photographer. He was terrified, as they all were.

“… Michael,” Laurie rattled, her blood cold when a new figure could be seen deeper in. Tall, menacing—it was Meyers—with his white mask like a moon.

“A-And Freddy… no, not just them. **All** of them,” Quentin stuttered, “It’s **all** of them. They’re **all** here.”

Literally her heart skipped a beat. So many monstrous people were scattered about that huge expanse, swallowed and hidden by the fog just enough to barely make them out. But they saw them; either the glowing eyes, or the pure white masks, or the gleaming weapons gave them away. Simply watching, eerily.

“Do we run for the forest?” Jake asked from his spot behind the log, but Bill reprimanded the suggestion as if a father was talking down to his own son.

“Son, these woods are their territory. They’d find us in a heartbeat. There or here makes no difference.”

His words made the group cower even more. Yet, as they stared like deer in headlights at the vast crowd of killers, it dawned on Morgan that something didn’t feel right. Shakily she walked forward, slowly, like she was trying to circle around one of the trapper’s beartraps. He was there, tall and menacing with metal bursting from his flesh and shoulders so wide he could perhaps carry an entire elk carcass with little trouble. Yet he only stood, much like the wispy Spirit who not once phased into total clattering invisibility. The huntress with the rabbit mask was not humming her lovely, haunting tune, nor was electricity surging from the estranged doctor’s body. Surely, it was out of range for its effects, but they would feel it in the ground. Like static electricity. Even from there.

She got as close as she could until she felt her body practically force her to stop. No, something else.

Something was keeping her from getting any closer, but she couldn’t explain what. As Ash charged forward to reclaim her to the false safety of the fire, he felt his body halt unexplainable. Survivors could not draw nearer. Perhaps the same went for them. “We’re safe by the fire, that’s what Baker’s journal says,” Morgan tried to reassure even herself.

“What do they want?” Steve spoke first, despite the overwhelming weight that was upon them all. Keeping them from running, or screaming, or even crying.

Nea croaked, hating the fright evident in her own voice, “Either they’re getting ready to kill us, or they’re trying to scare us.”

So many killers, so many who scared the life out of her almost, in yet she always found herself looking back at _him._ “Maybe it’s a warning,” Morgan suggested. The group stirred.

“A warning for what?” Bill spat, on edge with how vulnerable the group had become.

Ghostface tilted his head slowly, mockingly. Leaning her back against Jeff who was behind her, Morgan shook away the cold shiver up her back and let out a shaky breath. “I don’t think the Entity likes what we’re doing.”

Kate gripped tightly onto her guitar for dear life, the way the clown was glancing at her making her nearly wet herself with fear. “Should… we stop? They’ll go away if we stop, right?”

Morgan felt true, unadulterated fear, but as she thought about what to do frantically, she found her expression fix into a resolute one. “This is proof.”

“Proof of what?” King spat, not necessarily mad at Morgan but more so completely on edge.

Nancy, who was huddled against a terrified Kate, gasped with sudden understanding. “Proof that it’s working! We must be affecting it in some way!”

“Everybody huddles together,” Adam urged, “They’re trying to fracture our resolve. Don’t let their attempts work.”

Easier said than done. There were some disagreements being made, but Adam made a fair, solid argument. What other options did they have? Even Bill and King returned to the fire, their bodies rigid and eyes fixed to the distance. That made Morgan’s breath hitch. She was grateful for Nancy and Adam, who have supported the theory more than anyone else. Who have helped her develop it with the little material they had. Kate could no longer play, she was far too terrified, so Jeff took the guitar next. Even though they were being watched entirely, they remained together, playing music and singing, talking and sharing personal stories, comforting each other and encouraging one another. It was all they had, and Morgan was grateful that the stronger ones helped guided the weak.

For the entirety of the endless night—after some began to be pulled away into trials—the many killers disappeared one by one. As one of the remaining members of Legion turned to face Ghostface—perhaps exchanging words—they earned no reaction from the killer that Morgan hated oh so much. In moments, they were gone. Ghostface was alone and remained as he’d been since he first arrived. He watched Morgan, and as the group dwindled and tried desperately to distract themselves, Morgan sat upon the log and watched him too. When he’d tilted his head at one point, she felt her heart jolt inside her ribcage. Shit, he was so freaking creepy. The way his shoulders bounced just a smidgen had her guessing that he was cackling to himself. A finger came up when no one but her was looking—one she barely noticed—and waggled side to side. _Nuh uh uh,_ that finger told her disapprovingly. Clearly his warning last trial was replaying in her mind. Yes, he scared her, but she gave no sign of yielding even as her bones rattled beneath her skin aching from her cold sweat. She didn’t want to show him how scared she was. She didn’t want to cower beneath his gaze. So, Morgan stared with a smoldering glare despite her fears. All the way until she herself was pulled into her next trial.

They’ll make sure to keep surviving, only better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you guys think was going on with Ghostface there in the beginning? Theories are fun!
> 
> Don't worry you'll find out soon enough.
> 
> QUESTION OF THE DAY: What is your favorite perk in the whole game, survivor and killer? My favorite Survivor is between Distortion and Urban Evasion. My favorite killer is Tinkerer.


	12. Direct Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghostface left Morgan a message, and now she's got nowhere safe to go. To make matters worse, she just doesn't know who to trust. All she had was Jed, but she thinks she screwed that up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a tid bit more boring, because it leads up to much more exciting stuff.

_Morgan…_

It was warmer than usual. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but it wasn’t the sun.

_…let me through, Morgan…_

Something about it was troublesome, but she was stuck in a dream. There was sunlight, and she was sitting on a pasture with her family. Mom and dad didn’t look so old, and her twin sister Lorri was wearing that frilly strawberry dress from when she was six. There was a stick in her hands shaped like a y. Morgan remembered hearing about finding water entrapped beneath the ground with such sticks, though she wasn’t sure how to make it work. When she looked up, her youthful face knitted with frustration, she saw a figure on the other side of the large lake hiding behind the thick forest of trees. All dressed in black, with a face all white and long, eerily watching. Morgan grew motionless as she stared back, her sister’s mindless chattering falling on deaf ears.

_…I want to be close to you._

When she woke up, she felt as if she were on a cloud. There was nothing enjoyable about it. Far from lifting, it felt more as if there was cotton stuffed in her brain. She couldn’t quite think, only feel. The sheets were sweaty beneath her, her body knotted in the blankets frustratingly. With slow movements she sat upright, her head stirring, and her body coated in a layer of thick sweat. Dry lipped, she glanced at the clock to see that it was well passed her usual wakeup time. With her entire schedule in tatters, Morgan grumbled as she dragged her body out of bed. As she freshened up, she struggled to remember her dream. It was so vague, and quiet, but she remembered hearing talking.

When she was taking psychology in the university, she remembered them saying something about dreams. Supposedly when someone woke up just when the brain finishes dreaming, it forgets it. Apparently more than twenty dreams occur in a single night of sleep. Morgan glanced up at the clock.

12:15.

Damn, she woke up five hours late? Underdressed, she waltzed into her room again and observed her alarm clock. Ironically, it was reset.

“Well great,” she mumbled. She remembered this was supposed to replace her older one that would do the exact same thing. The more high-tech things got, the more likely they were to break. With a bitter taste still in her freshly cleaned mouth, she tossed the thing on to her bed and deemed it useless. Her pager went off on the nightstand, and she grabbed it.

_Work?_

Chances screamed it was. It had been a couple days since a murder had occurred. Already preparing her stomach, Morgan was a bit alleviated to see that it was a message from Jed.

_No work today huh? – JED_

Of course he’d know. The man was first to the scene before anybody, even the news networks. It always made her wonder what his sources were. Morgan stared at the message with dull eyes, the sleep still swirling in her mind. Lately she’d been feeling overwhelmed, distant, and stressed. Like something horrible had been squeezing at her heart. The only thing that seemed to reenergize her were the little times spent with Jed, though she’d never admit that to him. Just minutes later her phone began to ring. She already knew who that was.

“Give me a few minutes to wake up, Jed,” she grumbled tiredly, not shying away her irritation from him in the slightest. The man on the other line spoke with a chuckle to his tone.

_“Wait, did you just wake up?”_

“So what?” she said a little defensively.

The man’s voice lightened up a bit, and she didn’t think that was possible. _“Geez, I bet you look super cute with bed hair.”_

“… I’m hanging up,” she threatened, and was about to, too.

_“No wait! I’ll lay off the compliments, okay? So, I was wondering… can we meet at some point? Today or tomorrow or… something.”_

Morgan rose a brow. Ever since she’d let him come over a month ago, he hadn’t come by since. That did mean he never tried his darndest to spend time with her. Only two days ago did they meet in the park to just sit and talk: about work (minimally), about family (not so minimally), and life (Morgan divulged some more than necessary perhaps).

“Why?”

_“Uhh, cuz I got something for you? Something that isn’t stupid, I promise! You can actually make this thing useful.”_

Good, that meant he didn’t print any embarrassing photos he took of them. So many shots he’d sneak, often times not deleted since he was too tall to steal the camera from. Morgan pinched the space between her eyes with frustration, “Why did you… Jed, I gotta go feed the goats.”

There was a pause, the man’s breath staggering for a moment as he stifled a laugh. Admittedly, she was being her usual amount of difficult—that was always a lot. Still, the man tried, and she was almost touched by it.

 _“So after? Pretty please that’s not as pretty as you?”_ he mused.

 ** _Maybe_** , she thought, but she didn’t really give him that as an answer. “Let me call you after, okay?” And that was it, at least for now. The man was satiated, forcing her to promise to call within the hour. She pulled on some unflattering clothes—the sorts that she didn’t mind getting ruined—and dragged herself outside to face the bitter noon sun. Heat baked beneath her thin shirt, the shorts like men’s khakis as she treaded through the grass that, admittedly, was getting a bit too long. There was an abundance of weeds that the two goats couldn’t keep up with. This field was separate from her horse’s pasture. Otherwise, it would destroy the lovely greenery with it’s munching jaws and heavy hooves. Kicking open the tac room door, she disregarded the hazy dust and picked up a bucket of feed that she’d prepared a week in advance. The one bucket would last four days, given there were only two of them, so she didn’t have to worry about making more down the line. It was an arm workout, her fingers curling with the weight and her muscles stretching along the length of her arms as she hoisted up and treaded back out the door. Just then did she finally give the little pen a look to see that they weren’t there.

Crap.

“Shit,” Morgan hissed, every ounce of tiredness disappearing in an instant. Had they hopped the fence again? If they did, more than likely they were grazing somewhere near the little stream, where sometimes snakes would hide in the night. Morgan was worried as she walked the short distance around the room to scan the clearing. Even with so many weeds, they couldn’t possibly hide behind anything out of sight.

“ **Pinto**!” she screamed out, her voice cracking with impatience. “ ** _Lentils_**!” Nothing but a whinny from the barn. The doors were shut tight as she’d left them. Abandoning the food bucket, Morgan surveyed around the entirety of the big red building, the search yielding no signs and leaving her sweating with worry. Nespar makes yet another wild noise, high pitched and a bit bothered. Often, he’d scream with impatience when she was late for feeding him, so she didn’t think much of it. Curiously she undid the latch and pulled the doors open, expecting to see a whiny horse and loads of cleaning she’d been neglecting to get done.

_“Oh fuck …!”_

Morgan covered her face. She didn’t know why at first. Disbelief, or maybe the dread of it all, but as her fingers dragged down and passed her eyes, she saw nothing had changed. Only remained the same. Innards were strewn about, the dirt ground and once golden hay coated now in a cranberry red. A carcass was hanging on a hook dangling from the beams that was meant solely for stringing up bales. Speckled coats of fur were tangled with rope and sinew, the flesh moving as if it were alive. It wasn’t, but rather coated in a fresh layer of hungry flies already breaking down every bit and piece, left in every corner of the floors, the walls, even tossed way high up onto the ceiling. The walls reverberated with the sounds of her horse practically screaming, uninjured but clearly distressed. The bodies, she couldn’t even tell what part was which anymore. Lifeless eyes, faded and dull like the foggy crystal orbs of a haunting doll were staring at her, already sunken in from death and decay. The smell was fresh, leaning towards those beginning stages of sweetness that signified the upcoming rot. Morgan gagged—she didn’t notice she was gagging before—and couldn’t swallow what was now all over the ground before her booted feet. She’d seen what people did in the movies—stand all frozen in time, just staring at that terrible torture scene. And watching she’d find them so foolish, so stupid. She wanted to scream at them, for them to hear her. _Fucking move, do something you idiot! Who just stands there?_ Yet there she was, because she was just so mortified by it all. Speechless, with her breaths staggering, it all felt like hot air burning her trachea. Her arms were shaking as she shuffled in her spot, not having any thoughts other than the constant pangs of panic that never receded, never died down, only kept on feeding into her seizing brain. Perhaps a whole thirty seconds of that agonizing motionless, silence, passed before she brought herself to turn around. The doors behind her swayed in the wind, but there were bloody letters dragged across the once amber slabs of wood.

**_YOU CAN’T_ **

**_LOCK ME OUT_ **

**_FOREVER_ **

**_MORGAN_ **

❤

Morgan ran. Faster than any time she could ever remember running. The hot afternoon air flooded her lungs. The bottoms of her feet felt like they were peeling with every uneven step. She skidded across her yard, through her back porch and straight into the kitchen where she practically tore the phone from its receiver. She called the police, and then she called Joseph. All the while, she was backed against the door, between the heat of the outside and the coldness of her air conditioning, buckling at the knees in fear of what may happen.

 _It’s him,_ she thought after telling the exact thing to Joseph just moments prior. _Ghostface, it’s him. It’s him I know it’s him!_ The tears that were moments from falling didn’t finally flood out until an arm suddenly grabbed her. Morgan’s scream was piercing, nearly blowing out her own throat. It was Detective Joseph—her boss and friend—with a firm look in his eyes as he spoke calmly and clearly, slow so that she in her panic should understand. Only she didn’t. All those times he spoke to witnesses and family members like this, and she always found it strange that they still couldn’t hear him. She’d feel bad for the man repeating him, but she always told herself to not think bad of those people. They were frightened, depressed, ruined.

Morgan felt the tears wanting to flow but she bit her tongue, didn’t let herself break down. So many years she hadn’t, she wasn’t going to break now.

Wouldn’t today be okay though? Wouldn’t be understandable?

Morgan barely heard Joseph talking. Like her ears were stuffed, all she heard was completely muffled. As if she were under water. But Morgan blinked when Joseph repeated her name—how many times prior, she wasn’t sure.

“Listen to me Morgan,” he said, perhaps again, and this time she truly was. “This guy’s after you. Do you have anywhere else to stay?” he asked. There was a glass of water in her hands. She doesn’t remember ever getting it for herself or receiving it. Lukewarm from the heat of her palms, she watches it shift as she leaned more against her knees. She was on her couch in the living room. From beneath her thick lashes he looked up at the overworked detective. A man who was so far from the truth that she could see it all on his face. Older looking than it should be, grim and starved and even desperate.

“I’m not leaving my house,” she said, more like croaked, and already she felt the disappointment bleeding from him into the air. It was colder than she remembered.

“You’re tough. I know that. I’ve been working with you for six years, but **this** isn’t the time for that. You need to let other people protect you,” was all he said.

Yeah, she got it. She understood so damn much that even she silently agreed to it. Yet there was some unspoken thing—an underlying message beneath the bloody love letter. A challenge.

“I’m not leaving my house. Just have cops stationed outside,” she urged.

“I will, regardless if you’re here or not. This time he killed your goats. Next time, what? Your horse? I doubt it. Chances are it’ll be you,” he pressed, and she knew he was right.

Morgan cleared her throat, “I don’t have anywhere else to go that’s not out of state.”

“I can’t make you do anything, Morgan, but don’t think I’m going to let you bait yourself to catch this guy. That’s an officer’s duty, you’re a civilian. You need to be protected whether you like it or not.”

“I’m not trying to be bait,” she urged, hating the uneven sound in her voice. “I-I just… feel like no matter where I go, he’s…” and then she trailed off, not wanting to say what was next. Not that it was necessary. Anyone could finish the sentence.

_He’s going to find me wherever I go._

Joseph was looking at her in a way that even she couldn’t turn her attention away from him. With a firm voice he said, “That’s what they all want you to think. He’s a psycho, but he’s still a human.” Closing her eyes, she lets the comment sink in. Lets her lungs fill with air comfortably for perhaps the first time in hours. When was the last time she’d brushed her hair? In the background Morgan could hear the phone ringing. It had been for a while now, but she never bothered to answer it. Pick up and its mom, she’d hear something was up. Pick up and its Lorri, she’d have to explain the last two hours to her in fine detail. Nothing less than that, otherwise she’d end up flying down to find out herself.

Three small knocks on the entrance to the living room broke her concentration.

“Detective, may I interrupt?”

“What is it Miles?”

The young officer spoke, “A man’s been outside trying to get in for the last ten minutes. Claims he knows Morgan. I.D. says his name’s Jed Olsen.”

Already she lets out a heavy labored breath. Joseph glanced down at her a bit suspiciously before asking, “Expecting any company?”

“Fuck, I forgot,” she groaned, a hand coming up to rub away at the sting in her eyes. Slowly she began to stand.

“Woah, hey there, say the word and we’ll send him off,” Joseph assured, but she shook her head.

“It’s fine, I’ll talk to him.”

Stepping outside, the air felt more humid than back at noon. Jed was near the outer perimeters of her property, a cellphone in hand as he was speaking a little louder than she was used to hearing from him. Joseph was taken back.

“That’s the reporter, isn’t it?” he observed, half surprised and half amused. Then he gave Morgan a curious glance, to which she sneered at him.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing,” Joseph hummed, giving her back a reassuring pat before parting from her.

Jed’s voice continued to speak loudly from halfway across the yard. “I know her okay I can call again, wait until she picks up it’ll prove it!”

“Just wait, got it? I’m not letting anybody in that’s not family,” the older man in uniform didn’t budge from his spot near the gate. As Morgan came to a stop in the middle of her front yard, Jed’s eyes became ones of concern.

Absolute concern.

Nearly choking on her own breath, Morgan closed her eyes and took a deep breath. _Calm down,_ she told herself, _don’t cry. Don’t get worked up._ Something about the way he looked at her almost had her turning around straight for her front door. A few words were exchanged between Joseph and Jed. Just moments after, Jed was beelining across the yard. Gravel crackled beneath his shoes, his button down and nice grey slacks on the sleeker side and reflecting the light of the sun. There was a little brown box in his hands.

“What’s happening? I’ve been calling you for hours,” he said, voice strained from all the talking he’d been doing the last handful of minutes. Morgan was perplexed to see the sweat building on his forehead, the vivid look that was usually in his eyes lost in a sea of frustration and bewilderment. Meanwhile, Jed had been assessing her. To see if she’d been hurt. In her best efforts she kept her stoic self she crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

“He was here last night.”

Jed’s eyes pinched with confusion, “Who?”

“Ghostface,” she bitterly clarified, voice jittering a tad at simply the mentioning of the name. “I found my goats… strung up and fucking slaughtered in the barn just after I got off the phone with you.”

Jed was shaking his head, “What? Wait, I’m… having a hard time, he did it? It’s not some kids right, like how do you know it was him? Did you see him?”

Licking her lips, she felt the tension building in her chest and found herself smiling in an attempt to combat the weariness plaguing her mind. “You know all those messages the cops told you about in your interviews? The ones left behind?”

Confusion became realization, and then distress all in an instant. A breath came from him staggeringly and slow, “For _you_?”

A shrug. She couldn’t say for sure, but it felt like it. It felt like it too much. A surreal sense of dread was pulling and locking up every joint in her body, but she had to stay strong. “Shit, Morgan… are you okay?” he asked. Honestly, it was a stupid question, but he meant it. A little too quickly did she nod. Jed knew better than that.

Fuck… she hated that he did.

“Where are you going to stay?” he asked, but the look on her face told him all. Jed’s expression grew long, “You’re staying here still? After all this?”

“Where else am I supposed to go? I’m not renting a hotel.”

Morgan wasn’t expecting his hands to grab her shoulders firmly. “Stay with me.” The steely look in his eyes told her that he meant every word. Struck by the sudden statement, Morgan’s eyes widen, and she stuttered beneath her breath. Again he repeated it, slowly as if to help her process just what exactly he was requesting. “Stay. With **_me_**. At my house.”

“What? N-No, you don’t…”

Honestly, she was near speechless. Just an offer was beyond her. Jed only slowly nodded, coaxing her with the idea. “If he’s really after you then you can’t just stay here. If you stay with me, you’ll be safer.”

Morgan sighed, “I’m not going anywhere, Jed.”

“You sound crazy right now, you know that, right? Please, let me help you. You know he’s going to come back!”

Exactly—exactly, that was the reason why. She couldn’t say it though. She couldn’t dare to. Somewhere in her mind must have been a better reason to put down his offer, than way he’d stop pushing her. That way he wouldn’t fight it. Morgan didn’t want to fend her case off. She simply wanted to be left alone, yet at the same time not be left alone. A part of her was determined, yet most of her was frightened. With his lips pressed into a thin line he leaned in closer, shook her a little. “Morgan, _please_. I’m not leaving you here alone like this.”

“What do you care?” she stuttered; voice rigid as she hardened herself. Jed’s eyes widened.

“What? Do you hear what you’re saying?” he asked, but then began to stutter. “I care… I-I care a lot. _I **care** about you._”

That was new to her. As she felt a flurry of emotions pulling at her chest, Morgan breathed deeply, almost glaring back to contain the hurricane of mixed emotions.

Jed winced at his own words, “Okay, bad timing. I get that. But you gotta stay with me.”

“Why should I?” she asked stubbornly.

With a frustrated laugh he said exasperatingly, “How about the fact that _there’s a crazy killer after you!”_ Jed waved his arms in the air, causing Morgan to wince at how loud he’d gotten. From behind she could see Joseph’s attention caught. Slowly he was approaching, being sure that all was well, but not intervening in the conversation. Again, he was speaking just between the two of them. “It’s the **_Ghostface_**.” The way he said it. Like there was an extreme weight or burden on his shoulders. Like he was far more involved than he actually was, and Morgan knew that wasn’t the case. Shaking her head she pressed firmly against that.

“No, no, no. You’re not responsible for any of this,” she sputtered, but he interjected almost instantly.

“Well what if I am? I published that article, remember? What if I stroked his ego like you said I did.”

Oh, she remembered. It was the whole reason she approached him in the first place. Not expecting him to bring it up, she looked up at him puzzled as he brushed his messy locks back. “Okay… you are staying at my place tonight. Understand?”

Not a word came from her. Only her head shook, slowly, as she stared up at him with those firm, unmovable eyes. Untapped fury was wrestling inside of her. The hate for all the stress that damned killer had been throwing her way. And now he wanted her. Why?

What the hell did she do to deserve this?

“Look, at least let me stay with you.”

Despite whom it was—what he was trying to do for her—she seethed out, “Dammit Jed _, no.”_

Because **never**. She’d **never** submit to hiding behind someone else. Like hell would she drag someone else into her problems. Like hell would she burden Jed with the threat of a killer, breaking into his doorsteps. Hurting him. Slaughtering him like her animals. All because he was harboring her. The thought of being like a sickened cell carrying around the black plague was killing her on the inside, but she wouldn’t let it out. Only that inkling remained—the killer was at her house last night… killing her animals. Maybe in her home.

Maybe in her _room_.

Only her months-worth of fear, anger, and frustration that’d been piling up was left inside her now. It oozed from between her tightly clenched teeth like hot tar. Confessions were supposed to make a girl giddy. Make her heart flutter and the thoughts of dating and marriage soaring through her entire being. Shit like that was never Morgan to begin with, but if life was more normal—if she was just a normal girl with a boring job, hell, even if she wasn’t on this very case—she’d be getting those butterflies and trying so hard to hide her flustering. Not fear and trembling. “You’re safer away from me. Just go home,” she said dryly, distantly, cruelly. Jed shifted back. He was shocked, and perhaps even more than that. Morgan felt a pang of guilt, but she didn’t want to let herself soften up, otherwise he’d really force her to stay with him.

“What?” Jed scoffed, the smile on his lips a stumped one. Like he’d searched far and wide for a way, but only to come across a dead end. With that strange box in hand his shoulders slumped low at her words. “When are you going to let me in? You can’t lock me out forever…”

Morgan’s breath hitched. Then she couldn’t breath anymore. With watery eyes she glanced up at him and quivered beneath his gaze. “What?” she whispered so quietly she couldn’t even hear herself. With a tilt of his head, Jed repeated himself. Only slower, and with an intensity in his eyes that made her skin chill over.

_“I said… you can’t lock me out forever… Morgan.”_

God—it was like her heart was bursting. Taking a shaken step back, she reflexively shoved Jed away when he attempted to stabilize her swaying body. The man was stunned, his eyes reared open and arms held up defensively. Behind him, Joseph watched the ordeal. There was a glint in his eyes; he’d heard it too. It all happened so fast. Joseph briskly asked him if he’d come to the station for questioning, to which Jed could not respond. It’d caught him by surprise. Growing defensive, Jed pushed back one of the nearing officers without thinking. When they reached up quick in response, all she saw was a white-knuckled fist raise up. Morgan reached forward, “Jed stop!” But by the time she’d said it, he’d already threw a punch at the accusing officer. His arms were suddenly forced behind him. Officers spoke to him, his body attempting to resist as they cuffed him and began escorting him towards one of the police cars. As he reared his head back to look at Morgan, an incredulous look on her face as he was being dragged away.

“I didn’t do anything! Morgan, tell them!” he called desperately, only to be responded with silence. The look on his face—one of regret, and betrayal, and everything in between—suddenly made her want to vomit. Morgan cased her gaze towards the gravel lining her driveway and kept it there. “Wait… wait, Morgan I’m sorry! Fuck, let me go! Let me talk to **Morgan!”**

With her hands held up she pressed them over her temples and gasped. It was so damn loud. She thought the world was spinning. Joseph’s hand graced her back, and he began leading her into the confines of her home.

**“MORGAN!!!”**

**\----------------***----------------**

_“We’re going to do a recap of the events.”_

Wrapped in a knitted sweater, she watched from behind the one-way mirror. There was once a cop beside her, but after an hour passed, he’d left and hadn’t been back since. The cold was making her nose leak. Morgan swiped away at the wet spot before sniffling softly into the room.

_“Where were you last night?”_

She watched the side of Jed’s profile as he leaned forward against the table in front of him. Dark bags hung low beneath his eyes; the corners of his lips pulled down low. A look that she wasn’t used to seeing. A look that she didn’t enjoy plastered on his face. Not one bit.

_“My office.”_

_“At the Roseville Gazette, correct?”_

A noise, and then he nodded. Joseph stopped him, _“We need verbal affirmation for the recording.”_

_“Yes. I work at the Roseville Gazette. I’m the senior writer.”_

_“For a year?”_

_“Just under a year.”_

Joseph wrote something down, _“You moved down from Chicago?”_

_“I did. I wrote there too for the Daily Times.”_

_“Okay. Let me write that down. What time does the Roseville Gazette office close?”_

_“5:00. I went there at eight, spent about forty minutes there, and then I went straight home after. Saw my neighbors having a bonfire. Waved to them—John and Darryl Preap. Slept all night and went to work the next morning.”_

_“What were you doing at the office at night?”_

Jed adjusted himself, _“I wanted to leave my recorder and notes in my office. I had a late interview with a client. Joan Marks. Started writing an article for a bit.”_

 _“I know her,”_ Joseph said, _“She’s the landlord for the property where the tenants were murdered.”_

_“Ghostface did it.”_

_“I know.”_

Jed angled his head towards the one-way mirror, directly towards Morgan, _“He did it to her goats too.”_

Joseph ignored that and continued, _“How’d you get into the office after closing hours?”_

_“I have the key… they have security cameras. You can check.”_

_“I’m aware.”_

_“And my neighbors, ask them. They’ll say they saw me last night.”_

_“I’ve already done so. I know how to do my job. Just worry about telling me everything about last night. You’ve already got three alibies. Alright?”_

_“Okay.”_

_“You’ve got John and Darryl Preap, and then the landlord at 58 th Northwest Ave. That’s Joan Marks. We’re going to confirm it, check the security footage of your job. If it looks clear, you’re free to go.”_

_“And Morgan?”_ Jed asked. _“What are you going to do about Morgan?”_

Joseph leaned against his seat and looked up at him. _“Why did you go to Morgan’s house this morning?”_

_“I bought her a gift. It’s an attachment for her camera. To take further shots. She’s an artist.”_

_“You are aware of why you’re here, right?”_ Joseph asked. _“It’s not this, this could have been coincidence, but there’s a reasonable suspicion basis that I have for interviewing you. You stated word for word what was written in goat’s blood on her barn door.”_

 _“I understand,”_ Jed said calmly.

_“I didn’t arrest you for a hunch, I arrested you for attacking one of my officers. That’s a problem. That’s more than a misdemeanor. It’s battery against a police officer. That’s the only reason why I forced you in. Otherwise you had a choice, and I would have had to get a warrant. None of your rights have been kept from you.”_

_“I understand.”_

_“You’re going to be put into a cell for a bit. Look if there’s any charges. I’ll do what I can to help you. I know shit was happening fast, but things have to be done in a certain order. Just be good, alright?”_ Jed nodded without another word. Before Joseph left the room, he held out his hand reassuringly toward him, _“I know you’re worried about her. We’ll protect her. Just worry about yourself now, alright? Once I hear word on those alibies, I’ll let you know.”_

_“Yes sir.”_

_“… anything you want to tell me about Ghostface?”_

Jed shook his head no. That was that.

With that, he closed the door and locked it. It wouldn’t be long until a couple other policemen come in to take him into a cell. Morgan, feeling her heart beating slowly and painfully in her chest, was leaning back against her seat and staring intently at her own fingertips. They were dirty still from the feed earlier that morning. Hell, she didn’t even feed her horse. A neighbor had come by and taken him in for her. For now, all she had to concern herself with was her own safety.

_“I know you’re there.”_

Nearly jumping in her seat, she looked up to see Jed staring towards the only door in the room. _“I know you’re listening… you’re scared. But you always act like nothing fazes you. I always thought that was cool.”_ Biting her own lip, Morgan rubbed her face and leaned against the steel table. Shit, she felt like she fucked up. _“I meant what I said.”_ She looked up to see him staring at her through the glass. It was frightening to see how accurate he was, but also frightening to think that he himself wasn’t quite sure who he was talking to. What if she weren’t there? It’d all be for nothing.

_“That I cared about you. A lot.”_

“…”

The door opened, a couple officers entering with handcuffs. Jed was restrained, and he complied without a fight. _“I hope you like your gift.”_ The door shut behind them, and Morgan was left alone in the dark observing room. When she returned home, driven by Joseph himself, she noticed a couple police cars posted outside, very well hidden in the beaten paths.

“Here,” the detective stopped her before she left. He’d handed her a brown box. “Get inside and lock all your doors. I’m keeping my pager on me. Got it?” She nodded with understanding. “Good… I’ll let you know about Jed as soon as I get word. Try to get some sleep.” As he drove off, Morgan stared after with heavy lidded eyes. In the middle of her yard, as the evening lights casted their final orange glow, she slowly opened the little brown box to find a very expensive camera lens alongside a small note. The guilt had only grown worse.

_Pictures of you are nice, but I’d rather be carrying around pictures of my girlfriend. Not my friend. Are you willing to get serious with me? -Jed_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took me four hours to write. I took way too much time think about it. Poor Morgan. Everything is just falling apart 3': mean ol' Jed!
> 
> QUESTION OF THE CHAPTER: I have two questions! The first is killer you ever played against? Mine was a wraith, and it scared the crap out of me. I actually thing that was a hatch escape for me too. It was either that one or the second one after. My first three games were all Wraiths I think. 
> 
> My second is which killer do you think is Morgan going to interact with next? Who would you find most interesting? Writing it, I really want her to interact with either Freddy or with Frank, but that doesn't necessarily mean it'll end up happening...!


	13. A Sliver of Humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran sees something the other survivors have been missing. 
> 
> She need only to give the killers a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG.... CHAPTER... I'M... SORRY.

It felt like the very life was being sucked out of her.

The air smelt like crematory ashes. Every hair on her arm stood painfully high. Damn, it was so creepy she thought she was going to drop. As another loud neck-jerking screech echoed through the endless night, Morgan staggered and landed on one knee upon the rock infested ground. Pain shot up her leg, and she seethed through clenched teeth and teary eyes. There was blood in her hands, but not her own. Rather, it was Ash’s after she’d unhooked him earlier.

She’d say she was lucky, but no. That’s not how she saw it. It all of them had to live, then no one should have gotten hurt. This trial was a first for her though. A fight against something not quite as normal as she was used to. Only trials ago did she see Ghostface—for perhaps the third time—and he toyed with her endlessly. Chased her down until she was the last, left everyone to escape but her. At one-point Bill was determined to save her from the deranged psychopath, but that wasn’t so much the case. He’d choked Morgan so hard she couldn’t speak, and before she could manage to warn Bill that she was in fact left as bait, it was too late. He died before her eyes.

It gave them all the more quality time.

**_I’m so happy… we’re finally alone together._ **

**_Again._ **

Morgan jolted at another loud, raspy wallow that echoed from far beyond another place in the strange, still environment. This killer—beyond anything she was used to—appeared more ethereal than she did physical. Some would say they’d take one killer over the other any day. She didn’t feel that way. She hated them all, and this one had her own unique way of terrorizing her victims. Almost like a bat it groaned and moaned, the air seemingly colder around her in yet making the survivors break into a fearful sweat. One moment they were safe, and the next she was there. No way of sensing it, not like with the Spirit, where a malefic aura would arrive moments before she would materialize in a wisp of glass shards and fog.

Running her hands through her hair, Morgan took a deep breath and attempted to calm herself down. Deep breathing through her nose tended to help alleviate the terror quaking her bones. With revitalized drive she continued through the estranged complex littered with various restraints and stretchers—a round building with two floors—and took some time to observing the area. With her camera in hand she screwed on the best lens she had—it pained her to see it just as much as it brought her comfort—and looked through. Jane was nowhere in sight, but she could see Claudette approaching Ash who’d been hiding behind one of the dilapidated walls. They seemed to have exchanged some few words before she wrapped an arm around him and started the slow tread towards the nearest gate. _Eight hundred yards… that’s a long way._ Considering what they were up against, even fifty yards meant nothing.

“… speak of the devil,” Morgan muttered, spotting a floating apparition—yet physical entirely—drifting with her feet dangling above the air and her face bounded by a saggy, blood stained fabric. Morgan’s heart skipped a beat when she saw the killer facing the direction of her two teammates, as if deciding if she wanted to go that way. After trickling moments of a standstill she simply turned the opposite direction before disappearing from view. A strange light came from her trembling palm the moment prior to teleporting away. Just then, the lights flash on. Jane had done her part. _Now’s my chance,_ Morgan thought, eager to get the gate open before her comrades could get there. Taking a deep breath Morgan leapt from the high balcony. She tumbled down, rolling to reduce the pressure to her knees much like Nea had taught her. As she came to a stop, she was on her side scrambling to her hands and feet. Nearby someone was working on a generator. The last one.

Claudette warned them that the killer had a way of sensing when someone was injured. She would be the one to help the hurt get to the gates when opened.

Jane insisted she could prioritize gens.

Ash wouldn’t make another hit. Distracting the killer was no longer an option for him.

That only left Morgan if the time called for it. She assessed her camera. Undamaged, good. With a newfound determination she beelined for the exit gate, taking every chance of cover that she got, yet moving with complete purpose and nonstop motion. The gate was in sight, her hand gripping the handle and yanking it down. Now all she had to do was wait for the battery to feed with enough electricity to open the heavy doors.

From the corner of her eyes she could see her friends hidden, their forms waiting anxiously as Morgan worked on the exit. A curt nod towards them. She was confident all was well. Hopefully Jane would be there soon or was working on the separate gate.

**_Ssssssssshhrrraaaaaa_ **

She knew that noise too well now. Cringing, Morgan turned her head just in time to miss a rusty bone saw. It dragged down, making sparks against the aged stone wall before digging into her bicep. With a scream she yanked back, the handle falling down just moments before the door could be opened. “Fuck…!” Morgan yelped, her arm falling limp to her side, aching with torn flesh that was ripped down to the bone. Shit, the pain was so bad she felt her head spinning. Out of reflex she took a photo, the light so blind it made her own skull beat with pain. The nurse-like spirit seethed, screaming and slashing about blindly for her. In a panic Morgan began to run, her feet taking horribly messy steps along the uneven terrain.

_Run, run! Don’t think about it! Lead her away and Claudette will open the door when it’s safe!_

Yes, that was the plan they’d made up. They were lucky to find each other at the very beginning. Hopefully, their efforts would bear fruit. They would survive this, all of them, so long as there were no mistakes. Her arm ran with hot, smoldering blood. This time it was her own.

Already there was one mistake from her part.

_The noise… she teleports when she makes that noise._

Like pained gasps. Gripping hard over the wound, regardless of the pain, she attempted to stabilize the bleeding just enough. Vision grew blurry, her world was already starting to spin just a tinge. Glancing behind her frantically, she could see the killer nearing her. No footsteps, no grunting, just her soundless floating. She wished it were anyone else, but it wasn’t. She couldn’t keep track of this one. Closer now—her heart was racing with that telltale sign of an approaching killer. It bounced and pulled and tore like a vicious animal inside of her. Ringing in her ears, she could barely hear her own static breathing. That noise happened again.

**Sssssssssssssssshhhhrrrrraaaa!!!**

_That’s it!_

Morgan ran in a serpentine, jolting to the side, much like one would do when being chased by an alligator. The large reptiles dashed incredibly fast in perfect straight lines, much like this killer did. Though she couldn’t see her when it was happening, and nor did she understand it, she did recognize that it happened wherever it was she was reaching. There, just missing by a hair, the bone saw came slashing down into nothing but hair. Stunned momentarily, the ragdoll-like woman watched as Morgan stumbled to her side brutally. The air moved with the killer, the sheer shock of her simply appearing from thin air startling her enough to make her knees lock up. Fingers curled along the still grass as she crawled forward desperately. Morgan could care less how pathetic she must have looked.

She had to survive this, no matter the costs.

The killer was approaching once again, drifting across the plain will no concern over tackling against the bumpy terrain. Morgan rolled to her back, lashing her arm out and tossing a handful of dirt into the woman. Unlike an apparition, the dry mud caked against the curves of her face. She scowled—the sound a mix between a snake and a cat. The tip of Morgan’s foot kicked defensively at the slashing blade, the serrated edge digging into the soles of her shoe and tearing apart the bottom. Just half an inch from the bottom of her foot, maybe more. Morgan was back on her feet, ignoring the sore twist of her ankle as she plummeted deeper into the darkness, farther away. She’d kept track of the other exit gate. Jane was there with the doors sliding open.

“Morgan!” Jane screamed, watching with dread as the photographer dashed madly forward with her pursuer close at hand. With a bleeding arm hanging loosely to her side, she waved frantically into the air.

“Go!” Morgan ordered with a shrill, harsh cry. “Go! Go inside, go, go!”

The suited woman was not reluctant. They were all getting better at high tailing out of there when the situation called for it. It was so close yet so far. Maybe two, three hundred yards? Nearing the gate, Morgan felt the brick floor beneath her feet and the cool gust of the air from the dark, foggy plains that led to the campfire. Jane was about free.

The deep, wheezing breath broke the sound of Morgan’s heavy breathing. In a flash she was in front of her, something she wasn’t expecting. A gash dug deep into her chest, tearing up the soft flesh just above her breasts. She could hear her shirt rip and her grey knitted sweater snap against the fierce motion. Little metal teeth gritted against her sternum, kindling her body with an intense flame-like ache that was far from dull. The ground was hard like pavement when Morgan landed on it, her good arm flying over her aching, quaking chest.

This was the closest someone’s ever gotten to killing her outside of Ghostface.

“Please,” she pleaded. She’ll be disgusted with herself for begging in the future when thinking back on the events. Thinking back on how she could have avoided things and fixed her mistakes. Instead, right now, she looked up with wide, teary eyes and nothing but terror swirling inside them. The killer breathed raspy, a sigh escaping every few seconds. It sounded like relief and anguish. Fulfillment and anger. Staggering breaths escaped Morgan as she weaved her brows together in confusion. The nurse was only staring down at her for some time, watching with a tilted head much like Ghostface, and there was a certain curiosity to the way she was observing her. She’d stopped after Morgan said something to her. Once the blade was raised high above her head, coated with ruby red that gushed down the bandaged handle, did Morgan speak with a high-pitched squeak a second time.

“Tell me why!”

Frozen.

The killer was frozen.

Morgan didn’t have anything else to say. Truthfully, she did want to know. No, she needed to know. There was so much limitations to be a survivor. The book—Benedict’s Journal—gave so much yet disclosed so little. The mystery behind it all was painful. Dare she say far more painful than any cuts, hooks, and stabs she’d ever and will ever receive while in the strange hell-like setting they were in. Nothing made sense: phony deaths, twisted little games, emotionless killers.

At least some of them.

This one was no different, at least up until this point. Morgan’s voice felt like a big bubble trapped in her throat. Her eyes were burning profusely from all the dirt and tears in them. A hiccup escaped her stretched lips as she repeated the sentence a second time, only quieter. “Please, tell me why you’re doing this.”

With fluid grace the killer lowered the blade, her head lolling like a sack of vegetables to the side. Each motion made her look like her neck was broken; made her mirror some doll being controlled. With a slender, pasty white finger, she placed it over where her lips would be. Ever silent, without a word. Morgan gulped, perplexed by the action. It was the only time the nurse had acknowledged her in such a way. For a second, she didn’t seem mindless.

No, this was proof that she _wasn’t_ mindless. At least not right now.

_What does that mean? Am I annoying her?_

Rethinking her thoughts, Morgan fought to ask the correction question.

_Or more so… is it_ what _I’m asking?_

“Do you enjoy this?” Morgan asked, and surprisingly enough there wasn’t any malice in her voice. Just fear, just need. Taking the finger from her concealed face, the nurse waggled it slowly left and right in such a haunting way. Morgan noticed some of her nails were filed, squared off neatly, while others were torn and damaged. There was old, dried blood under her nails. Everything about her was strange: her demeanor, her uniform, her mannerisms. She seemed old—not ancient, but not modern either—something from a century ago at best.

Before any more observations could be made, the sound of the bone saw clattering to the ground made Morgan jump right out of her skin. The nurse’s hands rose up, fingers twitching as she slowly reached forward and wrapped her fingers around Morgan’s thin throat. Gaging, Morgan took a hold of her thin wrists and felt nothing but freezing flesh and hard bones.

**_“Shhhhhhhhh. No more speaking.”_ **

The way she talked was hushed and airy. For some reason, it seemed as if she intended to appear motherly, but that was farfetched. Rather, the quiver to her tone was demented. Like entrapped by total insanity, she hushed Morgan with quivering lips and with a tone that made it sound like she was smiling beneath her soiled mask.

**_“Your last breath… give it to me!”_ **

“N… **NO…** ” Morgan gagged, her head feeling light. There was a pressure beneath her eyes that made her feel like they were going to pop from their sockets. Her tongue grew swollen as her teeth bared down against it unwillingly. Face red, she reached up and weakly beat against her chest. The fabric was stiff in her hold. Thin but somehow strong. No matter how hard she pushed against her, the nurse barely budged. There was a well of strength within her small frame that seemed absolutely bottomless. Morgan’s vision grew dark, the feeling of her life rushing from her mouth frightening her as sleep was just around the corner.

**_“Pure… you must be pure… sleep forever. Catch the meat, appease_ It _. So sleep, don’t fight it!”_**

Mrogan’s eyes rolled with tears, turning red as the pressure built up around her neck. And then something she didn’t expect to hear. The red in the killer’s eye from beneath the fabric flickered for a moment before she whispered so quietly. Barely could Morgan hear her say, _“Sleep… I want to sleep. I want to forget… Andrew. I miss him.”_ Having glanced down at Morgan’s struggling body, she looked up once again to her face. Morgan was red cheeked, blue lipped, her eyes reared open wide as she made fruitless open-mouthed gasps. _“Is there somebody… you miss?”_

Somebody… Morgan missed?

Somehow, Morgan released the cloth uniform and placed her hands shakily upon the killer’s whitened knuckles. No resistance, only an estranged gentleness that seemed out of place for a dying survivor. The nurse made a gasp noise, her grip lessening around the woman’s neck just a smidgen. “Yes,” Morgan croaked, her blue lips feeling tingly and numb. “Very… much.” The nurse’s shoulders lowered, her tense muscles growing laxer by the second.

The nurse cried out suddenly. Morgan gasped loud, her voice breaking into a fit of ragged coughs. Jane wrapped her arms around her slender waist, her fit form hoisting her up and dragging her towards the exit frantically. As Morgan glanced fearfully behind them before they reached salvation, she looked to see the nurse standing up quickly, her arm outstretched and glowing with an orange light.

_She’s about to teleport!_

But she didn’t. Slowly the strange, casting spell disappeared, and all was left was an outstretched hand, reaching out. Reaching out to Morgan. Something about her was emanating pain. And without thinking Morgan reached back toward her, bloodshot eyes locking into her ghostly form one last time.

The nurse was startled. Morgan could tell by the way her body twitched. When Jane successfully dragged them into the safety of the fields, Morgan felt the relief of freedom wake up her legs. Racing away, she watched the nurse one last time before darkness overcame her. The nurse had dropped her arm and stared motionlessly after her, not even caring to turn her back to find the others.

Before the crackling wood of the fire, Morgan thought.

She thought, and thought, and thought until she could not think anymore. In that small little fraction of an instance, that killer didn’t seem so unreadable. Then in her voice she sounded tragically lost. Around her, the other handful of survivors spoke about life before this all. Some sang to the sound of guitar chords—it was Kate, she could tell by the way she was playing—and Morgan took the opportunity to retrieve the journal from her back pocket. It had been a while since she read it. The last person to have had it was Adam as he studied the text, entries, and underlying messages.

Morgan remembered the particular entry in mind was written in November.

“There you are,” Morgan muttered to herself, skimming a passage that was handwritten in cursive, dated back to 1896. One hundred years before her time.

_These things differ from time to time. But each acts in a similar manner, and with similar human physical traits. But they are more reminiscent of beasts of burden even though I can spot some flicker of humanity._

Morgan could already hear Adam’s voice in her mind, _but what does that imply?_ Morgan read on.

_With scars and marks on their skin and body. As if they have been self-mutilating themselves._

A cringe spread across her pale face. The entry was suggesting they were slaves, essentially. At the time, Baker had no evidence to this notion, but rather a thought or gut feeling. The same couldn’t be said for Morgan. Perhaps for the first time ever, she had proof of this hypothesis. Could it be possible then that a killer… a killer was actually-

“Hey.”

It was Jeff. Casting the man a grim look, Morgan must have worried him with how distant she’d been. “Everything alright?” he asked, and it definitely confirmed her suspicions. With a small smile she closed the journal and stuffed it back into her pocket. It was small and leather bound but thick from the old-style pages. A nod was all she could suffice. Jeff didn’t seem satisfied. “Heard you went against the nurse… need to talk about it?”

“Not in a way you would imagine,” Morgan said plainly, and it confused Jeff. As his brows knitted, Morgan cleared her throat and stared into the fire. “Do you think the killers feel anything?”

Jeff stared hard at the ground now. “Yeah,” he said, tone sour. Morgan swallowed before asking her bigger question.

“Do you think they’re feeling their own feelings?”

Now that was a confusing one to tackle. Jeff’s face went even more puzzled that it almost made Morgan laugh. Almost. Huddling into her coat she brushed her hair back behind her ear and looked at him. “What I mean is… are they themselves, or just puppets?”

“Like they don’t have a choice?” Jeff somewhat scrutinized her question, brushing it off like it was some joke. With a sideways smile he gave her an incredulous look, but the stone-cold seriousness in her eyes made his smile fade away fast. “Well,” he began, “never really considered it. Sometimes they’re quiet and serious. Other times they’re laughing…” and he trailed off, remembering something.

Remembering being forced through the exit gate, face stretched into an expression of fury and pain at the sight of Morgan injured on the floor. Ghostface was sitting on her back like some playful child as he pulled her arm back far behind her uncomfortably to make a waving motion. **_“Say bye, bye, fat beard! Bye bye!”_ **he’d sang, howling with cruel laughter after, insanity dripping in every syllable as he pulled painfully on Morgan’s locks. And the look in her face was what hurt Jeff the most. Frightened, and knowing that she wasn’t going to escape. He’d heard the word spread fast.

Against Ghostface, Morgan _never_ escaped.

“Something happened against the nurse,” Morgan broke the silence, pulling him from the tremendously traumatic memory. “It was like she became a different person. One second she was a killer, and the next… a scared, frightened woman. She asked me if I missed anyone.”

“… what did you say?” Jeff asked, afraid of the rest of the story for some reason.

“I said yes. It felt like she was fighting against herself. Like some person trying to regain consciousness,” Morgan explained, the fire dancing brightly. She stared with an intensity, but she held no interest towards it. “The same thing happened with Ghostface. He started arguing with himself and then… he wasn’t himself. Every time he kills me it’s like he doesn’t have a choice.”

Jeff made a winced face, trying his hardest to get what she was explaining to him. “Ain’t it all the same?”

A voice spoke from behind them. “In one case you’re a helper. In the other you’re a slave.” Jeff turned to see it was Yui. From behind her bleached hair she stared at them with fierce eyes. She was the newest there, but she’d seen enough. “It’s easy to see that they aren’t the same thing.”

Not a word from Jeff, simply because the woman had a point. A part of Morgan was grateful that someone understood what she was trying to get at. She wondered herself if any other survivor had experienced something similar to her. Perhaps so, but that didn’t mean they took the time to notice. It was difficult to see such subtle things during those moments of peril. Should she begin to ask around, the others would start to see her as untrustworthy (for being sentimental towards killers) or mad (for giving a damn in the first place). Given her image was on the line, Morgan decided to keep it quiet for now. At the very least until she had hard evidence. To her side she noticed Jeff was gone, a wisp of black smoke trailing where he once was seated. It reminded Morgan of the time before her first trial. There was nothing sentimental about it.

“I believe you,” Yui said, taking a seat in Jeff’s old spot by the fire. She was sporting a leather jacket and goggles. She had the expression of a strong woman. Someone who’d been through a lot in the real world. Someone who worked hard and fought with purpose. Needless to say, Morgan was impressed and found a dawning respect that this woman remained indefinitely who she is, regardless of where she was now. A small smile cracked Morgan’s lips toward her new friend.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, her gloves padded and keeping her knuckles warm. Morgan remembered she was a biker from Japan and would have wanted to ask her about her life if she weren’t so drained. Drained from all her thinking.

“I saw him.”

Morgan rose a brow at her statement. Yui didn’t bother looking at her as she spoke.

“The Ghostface.”

_Oh…_

Yui rubbed her nose, dusting her hands from the gritty dirt plaguing her gloves before spitting out, “A couple trials ago. He’s… disgusting. A creep.”

Surprisingly, it drew a dry chuckle from Morgan. Another song was playing in the background, and she recognized it as Burning Love by Elvis Presley. Fiddling with her camera, she could vaguely hear the nurse’s question repeating in her mind. Did she miss someone? The camera attachment had earned a scuff. Any other thing in her possession and she wouldn’t have a single care. This one was different. She rubbed against the imperfection with her thumb slowly, a deep frown forming along her face.

She wished she kept his notes to look at when she was lonely.

“I’d make it where he would only ever face me if I could,” Morgan said, her tone a little bland, but that didn’t mean she didn’t mean every word. The woman beside her was understanding, her head nodding slowly as her pink goggles reflected the fierce flames. She looked at her with her slanted eyes. Morgan found her very beautiful.

“You’re a brave woman,” she said, her smile pulled sideways. “I wish I knew you back in the real world.”

“Who knows?” Morgan mused. All too quickly did their little discussion end. As the darkness cornered her vision, and the coldness grew into a whole new intensity, Morgan heard Yui say something just before the sleep prevailed over her.

“Sayonara, friend. Good luck.”

**\----------------***----------------**

“Ahh!”

Old weeds burled into palms. They had little thorns on them that slit against her chest. Bracing herself against them was hard. Morgan stalled while pushing herself to her feet.

Mistake number one.

That’s all it took when up against him.

There was a soothing hum that escaped him. Relief, like he was basking into her. A sickening cackle echoed beneath his mask. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t put a face to that voice. **_You already know who I am,_** he’s said. Morgan’s eyes shut tight, her arms swinging furiously before her, her legs kicking viciously through the air. With his arms wrapped around her small waist, he lifted her up with ease, the knife in his grasp slicing into her gut when she bent forward too far. As she hit the ground a second time—her face bouncing off the surface like a basketball—Morgan’s body flattened, slacked and stunned. A soft groan escaped her, the distant calls of her fellow survivors falling on deaf ears. All she could hear was her own heart thrumming in her ears and the slow, deep, vibrato snickering of the man that was sitting straight on the small of her back. It hurt, his weight crushing her diaphragm. Morgan breathed like a weak fish out of water as he pulled at her locks to force her head up. Wincing, Morgan saw Jeff being pulled by his arm. Meg was hollering at him to follow her. Chances are Feng was already gone as Morgan had insisted her to flee when she got the chance. The sight of Ghostface still frightened the poor girl stiff.

No one seemed to be used to him.

But not many have died from him, either. It was as if he put such little effort. All have agreed he’d been far more fervent, far more excited when Morgan was there. The only one worth his time, Laurie quoted him, right after telling her something crude about her tall, freaky brother.

His little Morgan.

“Say bye, bye, fat beard!” he giggled like a schoolboy, twisting her arm up painfully to force her to wave. Each motion had her bones popping. Tears formed, her face gritting into a grimace before she gave Jeff a pleading look.

“… go!” she screamed, choked and mouth full of dirt. The man did go, and he hated that he did.

Morgan and Ghostface were alone now.

_“Finally,”_ he sighed, exasperated, but joyful, nonetheless. He lets out a content sigh, releasing her body before kneeling just enough to flip her around. Before she could do anything about it, she felt his body drop painfully hard upon her stomach. Morgan gagged, watching the starless sky above with a dazed look. The moon became three, and then six, and then twelve. The fog was filling her nostrils. Still capable of fighting, Morgan kicked and punched, losing to his greater strength as he grabbed both her arms and snickered gleefully into the night. It was as if his heart was racing at the sight of her. At the sheer contact.

“Woah, woah! Easy there, sugarplum. Don’t wanna knock your pretty little face off.”

“Fuck you!” she sneered. “What did you do to Jed?! Fucking tell me you sick prick!”

Another bloodcurdling cry. Ghostface pinned her arms to the ground, watching as she shook her head with a mixture of anger and panic. Morgan’s boots dug deep into the dirt behind him. No matter how much she swayed side to side, he didn’t seem to teeter far enough from tumbling off her. As the man tilted his head with a growing fascination, he spoke up with a tone that she couldn’t quite describe.

“You really like him, don’t you?” he asked slowly, deeply. The deepness to his voice scared her.

Morgan glared up at him with teary eyes, but she didn’t say anything.

“Find out who I am yet?”

Oh, how she hated everything about him. “Yeah,” Morgan boiled. “Just some crazy loser who likes to play twisted little games.”

_Oooo_ , he liked that answer. “ _Besiiiiides_ _thaaaaat_ ,” he teased, lowering her head until his masked face was a mere inch from hers. She could hear his breathing, unable to peer beneath the fabric that concealed his eyes. A strange electronic hum tickled her ears. As he continued to speak, she could pick up something strange about his voice when he was this close.

Like it was fake.

“C’mon, Morgan, _baby_. You’re a smart girl. You got an eye for detail. I’d know—we’re the same!”

No, definitely not the same. But then Morgan’s body loosened up a bit. Enough to where Ghostface noticed, and he tilted his head once again in wonder. As her mean expression faded just a tad, she actually considered his words.

The same—perhaps yes—but in what way?

“How so?” she seethed. It was impossible for her not to express all that hate inside of her. Ghostface was laughing again, his head lulling down and hanging limply from his neck as his shoulders shivered with every snicker.

“Hahahah! As if I’m gonna tell you! Talk about a cheater. You’re makin’ your man worried here, Morgy. You aren’t **_cheating_** on me with anyone else, are you?”

Odd, he sounded a bit threatening. Just a little bit. With quivering lips, Morgan glared up at him, a shaken grin cracking along clattering lips at that sheer thought of him being disgustingly possessive.

“Yeah. Just had a trial with the trapper. Had his hands all over me and everything. And you know what?” Morgan’s voice was borderline poisonous, her head tilting up until she felt her forehead press hard against his. Beneath she could sense the heat of his skin, the way the cloth rubbed against him all slick like he was sweating beneath the costume. “He grabbed my throat nice and tight. Made me realize how small yours are.”

The man was giggling again, finding her insults gleefully adorable. But then it was like a switch went off in his brain. Ghostface’s shoulders dropped, his fingers tightening around her wrists as he tilted his head _dangerously_ to the side.

**_“Gettin’…_ confident _now… are we?”_**

Morgan’s skin iced over. The tone, the mannerism, even the way he held her. It was as if it were a different person. _It’s happening again,_ Morgan thought as he forced her hands above her head and held them in place with ease. Struggling with a newfound terror blossoming in her chest, Morgan yelped when he retrieved his knife and suddenly plunged it deep into her chest. A gasp that sounded like a balloon wheezing out escaped her stretched lips. Ghostface stared, his head still tilted, his eyes shining beneath with a dangerously bright red glow that was blinding her. Shivering like a leaf beneath him, she felt the heat of her blood soaking up her shirt and jacket. A cough ripped from her throat, red jewels splattering on his mask. Ghostface jerked, stared down at his leather cladded hand as he released the knife protruding from her, and took a sharp inhale. Shaken up, he quaked in disbelief, opening and closing his fingers as if testing to see if he were in a dream. It was real.

“… again?!” he snarled, fingers pressing around the swelling injury just above her breast. Morgan coughed again, eyes pouring with tears as she felt herself drifting off. The moan above was a big hazy circle in the sky, lulling her to sleep. As much as she’d hate to, she began to accept it. That makes… the fourth death? Fifth? She couldn’t recall all the times she’d spent with Ghostface in this realm. “Hey, hey! Q-Quit that, don’t go dying on me! That **fucker** made me do it… shit!” Ghostface urged, kneading preciously into her scalp in the hopes of awakening her. Morgan wanted to laugh at the irony of it all.

Hadn’t he wanted to kill her the whole time?

Yet here he was, struggling to keep her conscious, obviously distressed at how she was dying beneath him. Easing his weight from her, she could feel the shaking in his hands as he tugged her hair desperately. “Morgan,” he whispered, pleaded, teeth clenched beneath his mask and voice viciously shaking with a sinister anger not reared toward her. Morgan’s eyes flickered towards the masked killer, giving him one final glance before the darkness swallowed her whole.

“This isn’t how I want it. It was supposed to be special,” he breathed, his gloved finger touching her lips tenderly. _“Fight it, don’t you wanna know who I am? Don’t you want more chances to figure out what happened to **Jed**?”_

Yes, she did. Although he controlled the little game, she so much agreed with him. But she couldn’t really help that, though.

_“ **No one** … no one else is supposed to have you but **me** …”_

Morgan woke up from the dream to find herself standing in a cold, snowy place. A large building stood erected before her, long abandoned but surprisingly stable. It was a place she’d heard about from her friends, but never once set foot in yet. A place Jeff knew well, where a terrible group of sinister killers dwelled.

_Saw my graffiti at Mount Ormond Resort. It felt like years since I made that. A group of thugs used to live there. They never really bothered anybody if you left them alone. Saw them once messing around with the old ski supplies._

Jeff’s story rung in her memory. Surely, this was the place. For starters, it was by far the coldest place she’d ever been to in her life. Canadian wilderness surrounded, visible but out of reach from beyond the wall. Sometimes Morgan wonders if she’d ever wake up to the real world again and not some fake. The call of the hogs and cry of the crows are usually her first note that she, indeed, was still in the Entity’s realm. Bone dry fingers cracked as she began treading silently through the snow, grateful she had her knitted sweater but pained that she was in shorts. Buttoning down, she wrapped her arms around her shivering body and decided to scope the area first. It was large, not quite barren, with various machinery and little janitor buildings scattered bout. A water tower was in the far distance, and some large piles of snow were placed here and there, reminiscing the true location during a point when people used to clear the land from the heavy snowfall. It made it easier to walk through, and gave more potential spots to hide in.

In her traversing she ran across Dwight and King, who were working on a generator together. As Morgan aided them in completing it, they scattered strategically and commenced the plan that they had come up with in a little over two minutes. The fourth survivor, they were unaware of. The same went for the killer.

When Morgan heard the first scream, she was in the second floor of the dilapidated resort. Nea was darting through the bottom floor, her beanie nearly falling off as she ran frantically with a slash along her arm. Slapping her back behind the base of the stairwell, she struggled to take a breather as Morgan cautiously peered from over the balcony. “Psst,” she hissed. “Nea!”

The girl looked up with a jolt, sweat coating her skin like a glistening skin suit. Relieved to have found someone else, she stared up at Morgan with her bright blue eyes and gave a grave look towards where she’d just came from.

“It’s one of the Legion,” Nea mouthed. Morgan was grateful to have understood her.

Legion—that’s what Jeff called them. The question was, which one? There were four of them, and all very different. Morgan only ever faced the one in a hoodie wearing all black, with a skull mask over his face. He wasn’t as tall as some, but he had a menacing aura to him. The faster runner she’d ever came across other than Meg, and he enjoyed flipping his knife skillfully around the air while he forced her in a corner. He almost killed her. Almost.

Feeling the sudden pain in her now racing heart, it grew stronger as Nea—who more than likely felt it too—began to panic. Morgan snapped her fingers to catch her attention once more. Motion for her to leave, Nea nodded and snuck off quickly and quietly. Through the front entrance entered someone she wasn’t expecting. It was a young girl, who sported a pleated skirt and a hoodie perhaps too large for her to wear. Pink locks flowed out and fanned before her chest. The mask looked like sutured porcelain, if that was even a thing. Pressing her body back along one of the thicker portions of the balcony, Morgan gulped and prayed that she hadn’t seen her. It appeared that wasn’t the case. Below, she heard the young woman stalking for near. Or, at least, barely heard. The generator had been finished there by Morgan. Much had been done as the only other female survivor there distracted her for some time. Morgan sighed shakily and felt a bit of weight lift from her shoulders. Despite the pain in her frenzied heart, she felt that this trial was looking better.

**“… Nnnngh!”**

Surprised, Morgan peaked over the corner to spot the young woman burst out in frustration. A sneakered foot jolts up to kick furiously against the already completed generator. Compelled, she inched herself a bit to get a better look. She’d never seen a killer lose their cool before like that.

_Is it possible that…_

Oh how she wanted to finish that thought, until.

**_Creeeeeeek._ **

Heart practically ripping from her chest, Morgan froze in place when her bottom leaned against a loose floorboard at just the right angle to make it squeal. Inhumanly, the killer’s head snapped up to stare at the source. She was looking straight at Morgan, her grip on her small yet terrorizing knife tightening. “Fuck,” Morgan hissed, jumping to her feet and fleeing down the length of the third floor into one of the empty rooms. Thrumming feet echoed. The girl sounded like she was practically flying up the stair, and it brought Morgan a new sense of panic. _She’s fast!_ About as fast as the lone Legion she’d faced before. About as fast as Meg, maybe faster. Skidding to a stop against the dusty ground, Morgan leapt over a window messily and loud, the down casting knife missing her by just an inch. It caught her sleeve, ripped a hole into it. Without thinking, the photographer dived down the balcony into a bundle of snow. Rocks were hidden in it, beating away at her bare legs with freezing pain. As she winced, she snapped to the sound of the killer’s frustrated, furious noise. She fumed, slammed her foot onto the wooden walkway, and backed up to get a head start. The girl jumped like a lynx, Morgan watching with eyes so wide that the cold started to sting them.

_Go, go, go!_

Adrenaline was pumping in her veins. The further she ran, the faster she got, because she could hear that woman cutting through bushes and deep divots of snow like they were a cake walk for her. She ran with passion—no, with desperation—towards Morgan. Another generator. She didn’t seem to care. The killer was hellbent on her.

_Why me?_

Morgan didn’t have much time to think, but she did recall the girl’s antics after losing sight of Nea. Come to think of it, when was the last time Morgan heard a cry of agony? Had nobody been hooked? Jumping a fence, Morgan watched as the girl picked up the pace and vaulted effortlessly over the small, high opening. A burst of monstrous speed. The knife was high over her head as she closed in so freakishly fast. Morgan gasped, turning a complete 180 to stare dead into the masked face of the killer with shocked eyes.

_I… I can’t get away._

A memory flashed before her eyes. The very moment before she was brought to that terrible place. Ghostface, with his knife high above her head. Morgan, vulnerable, with only one option left. Like second nature she took a blinding photograph of the legion just when the fourth generator kicked off. Blinded, the girl slashed forward. Morgan managed to jerk to the side just enough for her to miss. Piercing deep into the frozen dirt, the woman fell to her knees, dazed and scowling like a ferocious cat. It was like Morgan’s lungs were breathing through a thick filter. Every breath of air was difficult to inhale and only brought her pain, and she gasped achingly while watching the killer stir in the deep snow. Stumbling back, Morgan itched to find her friend and get the hell out.

All four escaping, it was their true goal! One whole step closer to winning.

Determination bled through every fiber of her searing being.

“F-Fuck!” the killer choked on a sob, her little hands shaking from the cold as she grasped messily onto her knife. “Wha do I do… wha do I do?!”

Stopped.

Morgan stopped. Surprisingly still, she turned her head to stare bewildered at her attacker. She was just sitting there, shaking like a leaf, in some sort of strange denial. Whispering to herself order, repeating warnings, she balled her fists and beat against her skull, the knife still in her grasp. Yet she wasn’t using it or chasing after Morgan. Rather, she was simply sulking there. Panicking. Slowly turning to face the killer, Morgan’s brows knitted together perplexingly as she frowned at the sight. Her throat grew sore. It reminded her of the nurse, and of Ghostface.

There were strings being pulled. That’s what it felt like.

“… you don’t want to do this, do you?” Morgan’s voice cracked when she asked, because regardless of the situation she was still frightened by the sight of the person in front of her. The legion twitched, her frenzied onslaught on herself coming to a halt at the sound of the survivor’s voice. Seeing Morgan still there was a shocker to her. Not only that, but she stood so open and vulnerable. Not in a position to run at full speed, and not hunched low to make her hard to hit. No, it was like she was some stranger who walked up to her, asking if she needed help. The legion seethed, seeing this opportunity as her last. Lunging forward, she attempting to make a dash attack, but she was messy. Stumbling and swaying side to side, her hair blinding her. Morgan jerked back, taking another photo that blinded them both. As the knife cluttered against the camera and cracked the protective lens, it crashed upon the floor along with Morgan and the killer. The woman was blinded again, her head shaking side to side violently like a dog struggling to wipe an irritated from its eyes. Before Morgan could scramble up, the legion mounted her in a flash.

Reflexively, Morgan backhanded her, the knife slashing against her arm and making her grit her teeth in pain. The mask was jostled to the side from the impact, the legion being swatted to the side. She wasn’t expecting Morgan to be that strong. Snow caved beneath the weight of the killer’s face. As Morgan frantically tried to crawl away, she paused at the sight of a young girl’s face, cheeks flushed red and eyes spilling over with fat salty tears. She was no older than eighteen, college entry level and all. Braces lined her teeth. Her brows were dark and her eyes a simple shade of green. With downturned lips she gagged at the dirty snow invading her mouth and spat it out before staring over at Morgan. A tremendous amount of fear clouded the killer’s eyes.

“You’re… you’re just a kid,” Morgan whispered, the surprise and pain tainting her expression. The legion paused, her widened gaze locking into the strange look in her victim’s eyes. Like she felt sorry for her. Like she was sentimental.

The legion glared, but it was forced, “You don’t know anything… just die already! Die!” she cried and lunged again. The knife was shaking in her grip. She was strong, but Morgan posed to be a formidable force against her. No matter how much of her own weight the legion pushed down, she just couldn’t get the blade anywhere near her chest. Morgan breathed unevenly, her eyes glaring at the tip of the dirty blade. Bracelets lined the girl’s wrists. Some were braided, some homemade, others with little elementary school beads and even smiley faces. A rather important looking one stood out from all the rest. It was solid metal and had an engraving on it.

F. J. S. J.

“You don’t wanna do this,” Morgan’s voice was strained at the effort she was putting out. Careful not to slip up—other wise there’d be a knife buried in her chest—Morgan took a shaky breath and pushed back against the girl’s weight. She was surprised to see Morgan lifting her up off her a tad. Distraughtly she shook her head in distress. “What kid… kills people and wears… silly bands on her wrists…?!” Morgan scowled, her cheeks turning red as she pushed as hard as she could. Any further and the girl would be launched from her.

“So what?! So what, you don’t know me! Shut up and stop fighting!”

“I know a psycho when I see one!” Morgan screamed like she’d had enough, successfully silencing the girl’s barks. The legion stared incredulously down at this strange, ballsy survivor, her braced teeth gritting as she pressed down with all her might. Morgan only kept on talking. “Day in and day out I looked at nasty people back home. What I’m looking at is a girl scared out of her mind! Someone doing something they don’t want to fucking do!”

Firm. Morgan sounded firm. Stirring something inside the legion, she displayed some emotions that Morgan couldn’t quite put her finger on. A mixture of different things—maybe anger and resentment. A breath that smelt of morning and bubblegum filled her senses. Something hot fell onto Morgan’s cheeks, and she is stunned at the sight above her.

The legion was sobbing.

“… Frank made me do it,” she mumbled, the bite behind her driving blade cutting back just a bit. It gave Morgan some slack, the burning in her arms easing off enough for her to actually focus on the young girl now. She continued to cry, hiccups gasping out of her as she shook against her hold. “He… he said we had to finish what we started. That we were in it together. I didn’t want to do it! N-Now we’re… in this place… I told him it’s punishment, but he said I was full of shit…”

Lungs wrenching, Morgan took in a staggering breath and shook her head at the crying girl. “He’s the one making you do this?”

**“NO!”** she screamed. “N-Not this! It’s mad… **_It’s_** mad at us. Frank says if we don’t do what It says, it’ll punish us! He’s just trying to protect us, h-he knows what’s best!” The legion—coursing with a fire in her that was not of determination but of absolute terror—returned to putting her weight against Morgan. Nearly forgetting her position, Morgan quickly resisted as hard as she could, lifting the girl from her slowly but surely. “It’s making us do it! I don’t want to forget who I am! I don’t want to forget my friends!” She kept repeating the same thing— _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t hate me_ —and every word was cringing Morgan’s heart. A soft shush rolled from Morgan’s lips as she attempted to sooth the killer.

“Easy,” she breathed, albeit her voice was strained from all the effort she was putting into opposing her. “Easy… calm down… just breath...” She was. She was breathing. Slower, matching Morgan’s pace. Slower… slower. She started to ease up a bit. _This really is… just a kid,_ Morgan thought. Just then, as the girl was growing weak and on the verge of giving up, her eyes flashed red. That switch turned on; it was like she was being seized by something.

**“N-No…”** she stuttered frightfully. **“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please… she’s nice… she’s really nice…!”** she tried pleading with something that Morgan couldn’t see. Something inside of her brain. Morgan’s breath hitched. **“Please don’t make me… please don’t-aaahh! It hurts…!”**

No, she didn’t want to see this happening. “Fight it,” Morgan urged, watching as the young girl struggled against the invisible hold. Eyes rolling to the back of her head, the legion was stuck between a mix of sickening laugher and uncontrollable sobbing. _Don’t hurt them,_ she’d whispered, _leave them alone. They did good, I’m the bad one._ Taking a deep breath, Morgan shut her eyes tight and released the girl’s wrists. It all happened so fast. The blade dug straight into her chest, piercing deep inside with a frosted touch. It stung, burned, froze… Morgan wanted to breath, but she thought it punctured a lung. The red light being casted from the braced girl’s eyes was gone, her face pulled into horror and shock as she wordlessly released the blade and stared, mortified, at her bloody fingers.

“I-I…” she choked on her words as Morgan coughed up blood. “I-I didn’t…!”

Morgan managed to shake her head, the girl silencing as she looked down at her with all the guilt in the world pooling in her eyes. _“It’s was me… it’s okay. I did it.”_ Weakly she reached over to grab her broken camera, arm curving to hold it close to her chest for dear life. It was like a safety blanket, giving her some strange sense of recollection, even right now. A sigh slithered from her mouth, Morgan’s voice was so quiet and weak. The girl stared at her speechless for what felt like an eternity, studying Morgan’s face as she bit back the pain in total concentration.

“You’re Morgan,” she suddenly spoke up. Morgan’s eyes shot open as she looked at the pink-haired teenager. How did she know who she was? Like she read her mind, the girl kept going.

“He… talks about you. The new one.”

Morgan grimaced— _Ghostface_. Gripping her camera tighter, she tried to not transmit her hate towards the girl before her.

“… why did you do that?” the girl asked. It appeared as if the Entity’s hold was gone. Morgan thought, and it was progressively growing more difficult. Morgan herself wasn’t certain. Surely, she wanted to help, but she couldn’t bring herself to voice that. A small smile formed on her bloody lips, and the girl shrunk at such a sigh. She bit her lip hard before continuing, swallowing her sobs to the best of her abilities. “I-I’m Susie,” she said, shame brimming in her words. Morgan’s breathing was shallow and wet sounding. Blood coated her teeth pink as she looked at the girl with cloudy eyes. Such an innocent sounding name. When she’d thought her hate for the Entity couldn’t get any worse, seeing someone this young forced to _kill_ made her loath it even more. The girl looked like she was about to leave.

_“Susie…”_ The girl stalled at the sound of her name. She looked down at Morgan, not expecting to see the soft look in her eyes. No one looked at her like that anymore, especially not a survivor. _“I’m getting out of here… and I’ll bring all of you with me.”_ Then she latched her finger around Susie’s bracelet. The very same one engraved with those four letters. Stunned, it took the pink-haired killer some time to comprehend what it was she’d said. The girl’s face grew wet again with fresh tears when a foggy cough rattled from her freezing, shuddering body.

The sound of twigs snapping made the killer jump. There in the distance she spotted Dwight, whose glasses were fogged from the cold. Petrified, he darted away, and she was about to reach for her mask to chase after him. A hand wrapped weakly around her bloody fingers. Susie stared at Morgan, flabbergasted still by how much energy she still had.

_“This one time… let them go… please,”_ she croaked and wheezed some of her last few breaths. Susie stared at Morgan, and then her own engraved bracelet. Friends—those survivors were her friends? She had friends too.

_You’re my best friend. I’d take a knife for you any day,_ Julie said once just after they’d met Frank.

Another hiccup, her head nodding furiously as wordlessly complied to the survivor’s requests. As time passed, she could hear the sound of the last generator thrilling with life, followed by an exit gate screeching open. The moon flickered; the snow having piled up over her shoulders. Reaching forward, she started to dust the soft flurries of white off Morgan’s chest and atop her head, mindful not to bump the knife by accident. The woman didn’t react. It was then she’d noticed that Morgan had died, fingers clutched tight still onto her camera, the other hand tenderly holding the large lens like it meant the world to her. Hot tears brimming over her cheeks, Susie bent and cried over the corpse, her heart wrenching with an ache she hadn’t felt in ages. Susie hadn’t felt so guilty—so human—in such a long time. Despite having passed, Morgan was still warm. Feeling the closeness of her body, Susie longed for the intimacy of a parent. All those times she’d wanted to grow up fast. Now she craved to be a child again. Somebody that someone could care for.

Morgan reminded Susie of her mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've seen Susie portrayed as insane lots of times, and surely she's cruel for what she did, but I wanted to make her someone who deeply regretted her mistakes.
> 
> Thanks to a certain reader who reminding me how epic the nurse was ;). 
> 
> QUESTION OF THE CHAPTER: What item do you have that holds a lot of value, and would probably be a memento for you? Mine is not my wedding band as much as it is a ring that my husband made from a silver quarter. It means so much.


	14. I'm Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She'd been ignoring Jed for several days. Now she greatly regrets her decisions.

“Did you pay for it?”

She’d been sitting in the wait room for some time now, contemplating. Contemplating on whether or not she wanted to stay and see him or leave while she still had the chance. The time was ticking. The more Morgan thought the more she felt her mind slipping away into a state of nothingness.

Wading.

She was wading in the middle of a vast plain of water, standing right in the middle. Shin deep, staring at the horizon. She could see him coming to greet her, and inside the pit of her stomach was fear. Surely, he was upset with her. Jed had ever damn _right_ to be. Before she could stay stuck in that thought any longer, she casted her sights downward to see the black-cladded, leather body of the haunting Ghostface, gripping at her ankles and pulling her in before she had a chance to see him again.

With how tired she was, it was no wonder she responded to the question so late. It wasn’t a rarity to find Morgan lost in her own thoughts, but Detective Fields was a man wiser than most when the topic of Morgan Yoon was at hand. Perhaps the only other man than her father to know her so damn well.

And, of course, the third one, only she didn’t let him stay in her mind. She was far too riddled with guilt to think of Jed right now.

Joseph was staring down at her, his hands in his coat pockets which fielded him from the cold of the county jail. Morgan never really stepped foot into the place, even though it was so close to the department. No surprise: she wasn’t a cop. Still, it gave her a pang of painful familiarity to see all the policemen walking to and fro, sometimes with handcuffed miscreants in tow and sometimes relatives with solemn looks on their pale faces.

Morgan figured she could be placed with the latter.

With an extremely tired look in her dark eyes, she glanced up at Joseph and didn’t say a word. The detective’s brows knitted together, not so much in annoyance but rather in concern. “All $2000?” he questioned her incredulously, only to earn her grave silence and nothing else. Shaking his head, the detective looked around—as if to see that the coast was clear—before taking a much-needed seat next to her. Morgan’s hair was all knotted and fluffy since the morning before, her clothes no more than a pair of sweatpants and a black tank top. The flipflops left her toes feeling like they were icing over. She stared down at the tiles that were some color between pale blue and French grey. The halls were depressingly bright in color yet dim in lighting. The woman gulped, her throat tight.

“It was only a misdemeanor,” Joseph reassured, hoping putting that into the light would ease his friend up a bit. She remained silent. “After this it’s like nothing ever happened, unless he gets arrested for something else of course. Misdemeanors don’t show up when being screened for jobs.”

“It’s not that,” she grumbled, voice dry. When was the last time she’d drunk something? She didn’t really care. The detective had an intuition only cops had. As he leaned forward, Morgan already knew what he was going to say.

“What you did was normal, and if he’s mad then he doesn’t understand what you just went through. That’s not the case though, I can tell,” Joseph said.

She already knew. Every questioning she was there, and every single time Jed asked the same damn thing.

_How’s Morgan? Is she okay?_

Every time she heard him ask that it did something to her. Hurt her heart. Made her want to get up and walk out, and not because she hated him. Rather, she just couldn’t stand the thought of him wasting his time with her.

Not after what he’d just been through.

“Jed Olsen,” an officer’s gruff voice called from across the hall where the cells were kept. He had keys in the hand, stepping just out of view to presumably release him. In an instant Morgan stood up, her hair bouncing at such a sudden motion. She would have stirred if she wasn’t so hellbent in leaving.

“Thank you, Joseph,” she said, her face lacking that exhausted smile he was so used to seeing her sporting. The woman stepped out into the hot Florida summer air, the tinges of fall just around the corner. With her car not far off, she beelined for it, keys already swaying in her tight grip. Just as she unlocked her car door, she heard the voice of none other than Jed hollering after her, his clothes the same from yesterday morning. If she weren’t so deprived from sleep, she would have been zooming down the street by now. She’d only started her car and began to back out of the spot when Jed had plunged himself through her open passenger-side window. Morgan screamed—half irritated and half surprised—as she slammed on the breaks. His body jostled uncomfortably, the tired in his eyes so painfully evident that she wondered if that’s how she currently looked. Jed latched his hands around her gearshift, attempting to force it into park. When that all but failed, he pulled her emergency breaks before slithering the rest of his body into her car. Morgan scoffed, her hands already pulling at the roots of her dark, shoulder length hair.

“Why are you trying to run away?” he questioned, still attempting to align himself into her seat. Even now he acted in such a way: unbecoming, like he was just totally comfortable around her. Albeit his voice was strained, and there was an urgency in his tone that simply _demanded_ she sat down next to him and have a chat. Morgan hissed.

“I’m not running away.”

“Exactly, you’re trying too,” he said. Morgan felt her patience nearly snap in two.

“Get out of my car Jed,” she began, and was going to keep repeating it until he spoke up.

“You payed for my bail when I didn’t deserve it.”

That was all he said. Suddenly, Morgan forgot how to speak. Tongue-tied, throat tight, she gripped desperately onto the wheel of her car as if it could give her some insight on the discussion at hand. Of course, it didn’t nothing but made her arms hurt. With an invisible gulp she stared at nothing in particular outside the window and finally muttered, “You did.”

“I punched a cop,” he said matter-of-factly.

Morgan shook her head, red eyes bearing down on him. Jed grew shocked like he’d just noticed how disheveled she was.

“I know that, you idiot.”

“Then how did I deserve what you just did? You payed for everything and you didn’t have to…”

He sounded guilty, and he probably damn well was. For some reason, that made Morgan feel worse. Wiggling her jaw she dropped an arm to rub against one of her itchy eyes.

“It’s not that!”

“Hey, hey,” he said, taking her wrist a bit firmer than he wanted, only because she was attempting to shake him off. When she simply grew limp to his touch, he turned her face towards his to see dark eyes, dry lips, and what felt like dry tear streaks. She’d been through hell, she hadn’t sleep. Come to mention it, she was in the same clothes as yesterday morning. It didn’t take a genius to tell that she’d been at the jail house all night long, unbeknownst to him until now. Jed’s frown worsened, making her heart clench inside her chest, and she turned her face away to look out the window.

“Talk to me.”

It’d been quiet a bit after that, but that’s all he’d said. All he was going to say. At first Morgan was grateful for the silence, but as the seconds ticked by, she felt her body heat up with anxiety. All she could hear was her mind spitting out an onslaught of hate and insults, each geared towards her. The man to her side still looked as normal as ever. For spending a night in a cell with nothing but a toilet, sink, and uncomfortable bed, he looked pretty alright. Like it didn’t phase him in the slightest. Blue eyes made Morgan feel a sense of weightlessness washing over her body. Gazing down at her knees, Morgan’s back finally pressed against her chair to attempt to remotely relax.

“I had no excuse,” she mumbled quietly.

“You woke up to a literal slaughterhouse. What you did, you had to do. You were scared and I… got frustrated. I shouldn’t have tried forcing you to do something you didn’t want to do. I’m sorry,” Jed said, and it was the most serious she’d ever heard him in her life. Morgan looked at him—really looked at him—and the way his eyes softened at the sight of a very debilitated Morgan, who wasn’t holding her cool fully like usual, made her want to high tail out of there.

“… did you get my gift?” he asked, Morgan’s face twisted into an incredulous look.

With a glare she looked at him, the man’s smile turning sheepish. “Uhh… did you like it?”

“… get out of my car,” Morgan’s voice gritted, and she was trying to be as serious as she could be. It didn’t work, as Jed seat belted himself in instantly.

“But my car is at your place.”

_Oh… right._

Defeated, she removed the hand break and drove them the long ways to her house. Jed wasn’t the type to be in a quiet car ride. He was speaking a majority of the time, telling her that he was really sorry, and how mean that one cop he punched was after he was admitted to the jail house. How his cellmate kept staring at him funny, and how he was wondering if writing an article on the poor conditions would make him look good or bad to the public. Slowly the tension in Morgan’s muscles eased up. Jed could be annoying but having him there acting like she didn’t just betray him made those awful inklings disappear. The last twenty minutes were back and forth between them both: Jed urging for her to stay with him, and Morgan telling him to drop it. Just as she pulled up into her driveway, did he bring up the one question she was hoping he wouldn’t.

“… is it because of my letter?”

Stalling from leaving her car once parked, she looked over at him. He was still seated, seatbelt and all, and his eyes were wide and locked into hers. Inside the pit of her stomach it felt like a tsunami was occurring. The worse sorts of butterflies. With a bitterness lacing her tongue, she recalled the letter and instantly hated herself.

Really, what did he see in her?

“It’s not that,” she said, slamming the door shut. As she began heading for her house, Jed scrambled after her and nearly slipped on the wet gravel several times.

“How about I stay over then?”

“No, Jed,” she urged.

“Are you sure my letter didn’t make you uncomfortable? I understand, really, and you don’t need to give me an answer right now, I just don’t want anything-”

Morgan screamed his name. In an instant he fell silent, staring down at the seething woman that had spent the last few seconds failing in opening her front door. Shaken, she gripped tightly around her keys and turned to fully face him. “I don’t need any help, stop acting like I’m some sort of damsel!” Painfully long seconds passed. As Jed’s brows knitted together in deep thought, she wondered if all chances of seeing him again after this were a solid never. It was hard setting things in stone with Jed unless they were dates, and even then, he’d tend it change it on the last moment just to drag her around town for fun. All on a whim which he claimed made everything all the merrier. Never did he look so startled. So confused, and aggravated, and just plain startled. A noise—a mix between a scoff and a laugh—shook from within his core as he came to from the deep, dark, unknown pits known as his thoughts. It wasn’t often he’d done that, but when came out of it, it was as if he’d come to some sort of revelation. Chances was he was just scatterbrained.

“You… you don’t trust me, do you?”

A ball was formed in her throat. Morgan shook her head, nearly forgetting how to speak. “It’s not…”

“Yes, yes it is. You’re still scared I might have something to do with all this, don’t you?” Jed questioned, and for once she felt that reporter vibe swarming from him. The man was excellent at interrogation. Shaking for a whole other reason now, Morgan felt tears dangerously close to falling. No, she’d never let those fall in front of him.

“Don’t say that. I regret ever questioning you, Jed. You’re one of the few people I can trust,” she mumbled, almost too quiet for him to hear. Seeing Morgan to meek was unbecoming for Jed. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting such a confession from a woman of Morgan’s caliber. He stammered, taking a step forward.

“… then what is it? Why won’t you let me help you?”

Teeth bit down hard onto her bottom lip almost to the point of shedding blood. As she looked up at his eyes, it felt as if she were being stripped and made bare. The guy made it almost impossible for her to lie.

**_Why won’t you let me in…?_ **

The voice made Morgan shudder beneath her pale skin. Forming a cold sweat, she swiped at her nose before backing away from Jed’s very close, very personal space. “I’m sorry,” was all she said, her hands finally remembering how to work. With her front door unlocked, she shut it on Jed’s face and locked every single lock on it. His fists were pounding, and when he earned to response, he quickly approached the windows and called at her through them.

“Morgan! Morgan let me in! Please let’s talk, I don’t want anything bad happening to you! **_Morgan_**!”

Three days went by gruesomely slow. In those three days, Jed had tried to contact her too many times to count. She disregarded each one. That morning her phone and pager had been silent. Morgan flicked on the television; the headlines were swarming with a new victim.

_The Ghostface Takes Another Life: Roseville Police Department Swarmed by Angry Mob_

In a frenzy she reached for her pager, only to see that there had been no messages left. Morgan’s face scrunched up in disbelief. Pulling on her clothes, she stepped outside for the first time and left for the department, greeting her guard officers on her way out. As the news suggested, there was indeed a dwindling crowd of very angry people. Signs portraying demands, ultimatums, and profanities were pierced in the ground near the parking pavement, while others were left abandoned near the entrances. Morgan swung around the back, where a very exhausted guard was at the gate. With her badge flashed, he allowed Morgan into the more private section. The building was bustling with panicked police and detectives, the homicide department swapped with not only the long line of cold cases from the Ghostface, but from other recent crimes too. Finally, after what felt like an excruciatingly long time of playing dodgeball, Morgan opened the Joseph’s office door without even bothering to knock.

He was surprised to see her, to say the least.

“Morgan?”

“Why didn’t you call me?” she demanded an answer, trying her best to be humbly earnest but struggling to contain the fire coursing through her veins. Joseph said something to the phone, abruptly ending the call, and Morgan was a tiny bit guilty for that.

Just a tiny bit.

“I put you on medical leave.”

Morgan glared, “I’m fine.”

“Stress and trauma can count as a need for medical attention. It’s called psychological health, Morgan,” Joseph cut in curtly, and he used that tone she hated so much. When he did, what he said was always final. Morgan bit the inside of her cheek before crossing her arms tightly. For some reason, she felt like an angry high schooler.

“I can handle bodies.”

“It’s not about the bodies. This killer might have taken an interest to you. Do you really think I’m going to jeopardize your safety like that by letting you work on cases?” he asked her firmly.

Morgan let out a heavy huff, “What else am I supposed to do?”

“Find somewhere else to stay in the meantime. We’re getting closer. It won’t be long until he makes a mistake.”

As Joseph returned to the phone, attempting to remember the right extension to dial, Morgan took notice of the photographs scattered across his table. Admittedly, her pride was stricken. Those weren’t hers, but rather some filler photographer they had come in while she’s on her forced leave. Then, she saw the way the victim was slaughtered, and she picked it up with wide eyes to take a closer look.

Brutal—it was by far the most brutal. So many wounds, so much blood. It was as if the killer took every bit of strength he had in massacring this poor victim, who was absolutely unidentifiable. Blood soaked up in the once white carpet. The splash marks everywhere suggested such violent thrusts. Morgan must have looked as she thought, because Joseph stopped all he was doing to look at her.

“Was this from this morning?” she asked, a bit shaken. Joseph sighed.

“Yes. A man from west Roseville. Seventy-six stab wounds. Worse one to date.”

Hate. It was as if this man was killed out of hate, but the Ghostface didn’t kill people with connections. He just _killed_. “It was as if he took out his frustrations on the guy,” Joseph said, and Morgan shivered.

Suddenly, she was a million times more frightened.

“Was there a message left behind?” she asked.

Joseph shook his head. No, there hadn’t been. How odd. Before she could think much on it, her friend interjected her thoughts a little harshly. Perhaps to spare her from her own obsessive nature.

“How’s the reporter with the nice left hook?” Joseph decided to change the subject. Startled, Morgan placed the photograph down and attempted to decipher his question. He helped her, “The newspaper boy who socked Officer Evans in his eye. He’s still swollen, you know.”

That made her bite her lip. “I haven’t seen him,” she answered, seeing the look on Joseph’s face and recognizing it as disappointment. With a shrug he turned to face the phone again, his fingers pressing away at the buttons.

“He was there at the scene. Must have wondered where you were. I told him you’ve been on leave.”

_Great, now you think he’s my boyfriend?_

That’s what she’d almost said, but Morgan swallowed it back. Before leaving, Morgan stopped at the front desk and made a quick, discreet call. The line rung for a very long while.

_You have reached Jed Olsen, senior writer of the Roseville Gazette. I’m sorry I could not come to the phone right now. Please leave your message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If you would like to make an appointment with me, please call out front desk at 555-542-1287. Thank you._

**_…beeeep._ **

“Jed… it’s Morgan. I’m at the station. I was… wondering if I can see you.” She paused, not knowing what else to say. Plagued with a sudden wave of anxiety, she said a quick goodbye before hanging up. Then, she tried a second time, only to be greeted with his overly professional and very out of character answering machine. Deeply frowning, Morgan returned to her car and began having a dangerous inward battle. That weaker side of her lost, and in mere minutes she was parked just outside of the Roseville Gazette headquarters.

The woman in front desk must have remembered Morgan. She was young and pretty, her eyes a nice shake of light brown, and her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. As she smiled, Morgan noted her lips were glossy. She wondered if Jed had ever flirted with her before.

Or vice versa.

“Hello, welcome, do you have an appointment?”

Morgan’s smile was a little strained, “No… I was wondering if Jed Olsen was in today?”

The girl looked at her computer for a moment, “Mmm… no, he left for an interview maybe fifteen minutes ago? He just called and said that the client canceled on him, though. If you want, you can wait here in the lobby until he comes back.”

“… alright,” Morgan muttered, turning to take a seat in one of the many chairs. They were those sorts that were made with varnished wood—dark in pigment—and leather-bound seats that were a bit on the firmer side. Swallowing, she retrieved her pager and sifted through her contacts.

_Your office – Morgan_

Short but sweet. She’d thought for an awfully long time before sending that. Half expecting to get a response, she was both perplexed and disappointed in the fact that within the first thirty minutes, she’d not once felt her pager chime. At first, she’d mistaken it to be broken, but at first glance she saw it was functioning quite fine. Every time the front desk rang, Morgan’s head perched up slightly in the hopes of hearing the secretary say his name.

_Oh, hi Jed. Yeah, you have a lady here waiting for you._

That didn’t seem right.

**_She’s all ragged and looks like a total bitch._ **

There we go. Morgan huffed. Damn, what a nasty take on herself. Shaking the thoughts from her head, she lifted her head in waiting as the phone rang once again. When the woman answered, she didn’t pick up on any indications that suggested it was him. The girl simply hung and glanced at her wristwatch a little confused before looking over at Morgan. She smiled, but she had another emotion she was trying to hide; worry. Odd, what could she be worried about? But as the seconds ticked upon the wall-mounted clock above Morgan’s head, and the minutes piled up into well over two hours, Morgan’s bouncing leg doubled and speed and her incessant glazing over the wide windows behind her began to happen more frequently.

_Have you heard from Jed?_

_No, have you?_

_He has a client waiting to see him, and then he has another interview for the local event later this evening._

_What am I supposed to do if he doesn’t show up then? I’m already swamped as it is. I can’t take all his projects._

_This isn’t normal for him to disappear. Is he alright?_

Inside her chest was pounding. Abruptly standing, Morgan doesn’t even announce her leave as she decides to approach a payphone. Like her, the man didn’t have a cellphone, so she decided to call the next best thing. Throwing in a couple quarters into the slot, she attempted to contact his house phone, only to hear a dead tone follow through.

_That isn’t normal._

Practically leaping into her car, Morgan began driving a little faster than permitted towards the suburban area of Roseville. Sending Joseph a message, she was mindful enough of pedestrians but had nearly gotten into a couple accidents along the way. With a deep breath she sent the message through her pager: _786 Willow Wood Way._

She’d rather be sure and embarrassed than mistaken, full of regret. As nightfall began to near, and the sun kissed the hidden horizon, it left behind lovely streaks of purple and orange painted across the sky. Morgan pulled up into his driveway to see his car was, in fact, parked beneath the pathetic shade of a lone tree. A flux of annoyance flooded her body, but instantly she stopped to see that no lights were on inside. Morgan grew paranoid. Cutting the engine, she locked up her car and hurried towards the front door. With a hesitance she knocked loudly.

There was no answer.

Had he been asleep? Did he drink, and maybe he was drunk and out cold on the couch? The man was healthy and fit, and from the sounds it wasn’t like him to ditch out on work unannounced. Morgan sent another message from her pager.

_Wake up._

And then again.

_Front door._

She’d been less cryptic if she weren’t so nervously waiting at his front door. But not a sound could be heard—he was a rather loud person—and she hated how everything was panning out for the worse. With a firm jingle to the knob, Morgan found it locked. _Fucking should have taken the key when he offered it,_ she thought, and she might have too. If he hadn’t been so suggestive with that grin of his at the time. Not bothering to knock yet again, Morgan treaded around the side of his yard towards the back, where she saw his back-sliding door left wide open. Given it was hot out, her first thought of Jed wanting fresh air was instantly washed away. It could have been he’d forgotten it, but for a senior writer that had many appointments and projects under his plate, she was well aware that Jed was far from forgetful. Then there was the third option.

“… shit,” Morgan swallowed her words, carefully approaching the ajar entrance. The inside of the home was not so dark that she couldn’t see. There was still sunlight. Cold air from the air conditioning rushed out passed her, making her body lax from the chill that should have been welcomed. But she continued to sweat, her eyes scaling left and right to heavily observe the living room. Morgan touched the handle and pushed the door shut, feeling something slippery beneath her fingers.

Blood coated her hands.

“W-What,” Morgan stuttered, feeling the tightness in her throat already beginning to form. With a new wave of urgency she stumbled forward to finally notice the small droplets of blood that soaked up the carpeting, some smudged and others perfect little ruby circles. Instantly she had her gun out. “Jed…!” she called out, body shaking. She knew what she was doing was stupid, but she couldn’t help it. Messily she walked across his living room, all attempts to drive her legs forward quicker failing from the tremor that tightened every muscle in her body. Down the hall she saw blood smearing along the wall where fingers had been dragged, a door left open with legs lying idly in the hallway.

**“Jed!”**

Morgan rushed towards him, her body colliding hard with the doorway. He was face up, still sporting his work clothes. A slice was entrenched along his left forearm, while a deep wound ruptured through his once pristine white dress shirt and straight into the flesh just near his bellybutton. The gun was lost on the ground—as foolish as an act that it was—and she was touching his face to find that it was still warm.

Just barely.

“Oh God, Jed please wake up!” she cried out agonizingly. Her wailing stirred him awake, his eyes shooting open to spot her blurry image. Slowly a smile crept across his lips, his voice barely a whisper as he said her name questioningly. She didn’t think much of it. It was like he was dreaming and couldn’t quite believe she was there. “C’mon, c’mon that’s it. Don’t fall asleep,” she practically ordered, removing her shirt to reveal a sports bra beneath. Balling it around her fist, Morgan didn’t shy away and pushed the cottony fabric straight into the wound that still bled profusely. The man cried out, his neck clenching and eyes squeezing shut so tight there were tears pouring out. A staggered, broken breath escaped him. Jed’s teeth were coated red. “I’ll be right back,” she said, stepping out of the room with her gun in hand. In the living room she investigated the phone to find the line was cut. Shit, it explained why the call didn’t go through. Morgan was rigid, turning every corner with her gun out, ready to pull the trigger at the first black-robed figure to turn the corner. Swallowing deeply, she was struck with an idea as she entered the kitchen. Jed had a security system. She armed the alarm before kicking the weak door open and nearly off its hinges. Soon, it was blaring loudly across the neighborhood, its loud screams echoing like a cry for help.

The police would come to that quickly. Morgan checked the rest of the house, finding no sign of the killer. She wondered how police were able to do it. Every second her heart weighed down in absolute fear, but she pressed on until she had returned to Jed’s side. He was out of it, and with a flick of her wrist she was slapping at his cheek.

“Jed don’t fall asleep! Wake up!”

“I… already was…” he said hoarsely, watching her with dull, distant eyes as she worked his big hand. His fingers instinctively wrapped around her own as she forced him to hold the bundled shirt against his wound. Jed winced at the pain, “That noise…”

“The cops are on their way. Who… who did this to you?” she hated how she stuttered. Jed coughed, the blood splattering across her pristine chest and soiling her clothing.

“… _Ghostface_ …” he wheezed, eyes struggling to focus on her face. Morgan froze, her eyes pulling open so wide she felt the cold air stinging her corneas. Ghostface…

… it was _**Ghostface**_.

A heavy scowl was engraved on her face, her eyes flowing over with tears as she stared down at Jed. That smile she’d grown to _adore_ was somehow there, but a shadow of what it truly should have been. Never did she come by on her own will in the few months of knowing him. Never did he see her cry from the stresses of her labors, or the bodies that piled up which she photographed, or from the pure liquid white _fear_ of the killer who’d taken a liking to her.

_Why… why me? Why does he want **me?**_

The feeling of her tears falling upon his cheeks stirred him back to reality. Jed stared, eyes barely open but locked into hers as she cried above him. Her lips were pulled into a painful frown, her teeth clattering as she touched his face so gently, so tenderly, for a second he couldn’t believe it was her. He looked spaced out. It worried her endlessly. “H-Hey, where do you think you’re going? Come back to me.” It must have taken all his effort to zone back to the sound of her voice. When he looked at her, it was like a lifeless doll. 

_“I’m sorry,”_ she choked out the apology, and he looked shocked. It was her fault he’d gotten hurt. If she hadn’t been so involved with him. If she had only ignored him and kept on living on her own. He wouldn’t have been so injured, in the floor of his painfully plain bedroom.

_Dying._

“I-I’m sorry I ignored you, Jed. I wanted to stay with you so bad, but I was scared something bad would fucking happen!” she wept, squeezing her eyes shut tight, her hands touching against his chest carefully in the attempt to keep him awake. All the while he only stared, not a single word exiting his now pale lips. Jed stared at her tragic tears and seething rage for the one who’d hurt him. And just before he’d passed out from the blood loss, he was fully captivated by the sight. Jed faded out, Morgan’s hands shaking lightly at his shoulders, fighting to keep him awake.

“Jed, stay awake! Don’t fucking fall asleep on me, **Jed**!”

**\----------------***----------------**

When was the last time she’d slept?

As she sat there in the waiting room, her thumbs twiddling, she could see the soft white light being reflected against the white floor tiles. It reminded her of the jail house, only eerie in its own sense. A part of her was tempted to sleep along the row of chairs hours ago, but she knew it would all have been in vain. Slowly blinking, she took a deep breath and let it flow out, her body hunched over as she leaned upon her knees and sat with a low arch. Her back began to ache in the awkward positioning, but she didn’t even move. She’s had to take a piss since 8:00 PM, but she not once stood from her spot in the last seven hours. Morgan didn’t want to miss the doctor, or one of the nurses, in her absence.

So she stayed dutifully in the waiting room, once full of people and now dwindled down to her and somebody else sitting in the far-off corner near the exit to the hallway. Eyes glanced over, her dead panned expression searing beneath its dull exterior. That man, all by himself. Who was he really? Chances was he could be a killer.

Chances was he was the Ghostface.

_Calm down, Morgan._

She closed her eyes and heeded her inner voice.

_You’re stressed… don’t starting think like that. You’ll go insane._

Surely, she would. With another slow breath she inhaled through her nose and out her mouth. Slow and steady. That’s it. Once her lungs were fully emptied, she repeated it several more times until she felt her foundation beneath her. Before she felt the cold hospital air conditioning and the way her nails lightly scratched her fingers as she fiddled with them. Opening her eyes, she saw the man was staring at her. Upon noticing her dark stare he was instantly looking back down at the magazine in his hands.

_Maybe…_

“Miss Yoon?”

Morgan jolted, her head snapping over to see the old man standing at the glass doorway. A doctor, who looked quite exhausted to say the least. “Mr. Olsen just left surgery. He suffered some internal damage, but he was lucky enough to where no organs were penetrated. Only family is allowed in intensive care, but he kept saying your name before we put him under. If you’re ready, you can see him now.”

Too closely did she follow the doctor to the hospital room. Inside was a single bed, the sounds of monitors beeping and buzzing and all sorts of things in between. Jed was lying there in a gown of mint green in color, his eyes shut and body in a forty-five-degree angle. Instantly she was by his side, touching his big hands to feel them limp. He had yet to stir.

“He’s going to be out for a while, but don’t worry. He’s fine, and we’re closely monitoring him.”

“… thank you,” Morgan mumbled, listening as the doctor reluctantly left them alone. The door was shut, the light from the hallway outside only creeping beneath the space below. With the lone lamp shining overhead, Morgan took his hand in hers and massaged gently into his fingers. Selfishly she wanted to wake up, but she knew it wouldn’t be possible yet anyhow.

“Jed… hey, it’s me… can you hear me?” she whispered, hearing only his slow breathing and the beeping of his heart through the mechanism attached to his chest. All the signs must have been normal, but she couldn’t tell. There she noticed stitching along his forearm. It was going to become a nasty scar along his once spotless skin. Jed said nothing. “It’s all my fault you’re here,” she sighed, and she would have laughed at herself if she weren’t so damn tired. The man was asleep as she pressed her lips against his cold knuckles, her body standing slowly, and she kissed the top of his head. He was asleep, she needn’t hide herself from him now. Glancing at the clock, she decided to scoot the chair closer. That way she could at least lay her head on the bed next to him. Finally getting the chance to relax, Morgan took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Morgan thought of the letter he’d left with her gift.

 _Are you willing to get serious with me?_

“Yes,” she muttered, voice aching from all the crying she’d been doing. “Yes, you idiot. I’m willing.” Morgan played with his thumb, her vision fading into black. In mere moments she was asleep.

Jed watched her sleeping face intently, his distant eyes glistening with that same bleakness. She hadn’t noticed him staring at her. Hadn’t noticed him listening. In his eyes, they displayed nothing just like a corpse’s, yet the longer he stared the more he couldn’t control the twisted, giddy smile pulling up at his pale lips. Through the pain he felt a tingling sensation deep in his gut. His hand sluggishly came up, trembling fingers curling dangerously close to her neck. Instead he placed his wide palm pleasantly upon her knotted hair almost endearingly, petting her sleeping form with his stitched arm. How vulnerable...

**_“Finally.”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OoOoOoOoOo somebody is a good actor. Another homage to the Scream movie, which I get a kick out of watching after all these years.
> 
> And 2020's Manipulative Jerk of the Year.
> 
> QUESTION OF THE CHAPTER: If you were a character, what play style would yours revolve around, and what would the difficulty be? For me, I would be a character that is meant to be hard to track but also meant to unhook survivors or pick up downed survivors. A class that gains benefits by lingering nearby the killer often. Perhaps certain perks wouldn't register unless I'm in the killer's terror radius. For that, I would assume I would be an Intermediate (more so) or Hard difficulty to play as.


	15. Save the Best for Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghostface isn't doing things like he usually does, and it takes the team of survivors for a loop as they fall one by one. Nothing Morgan plans seem to be working. She feels something big is about to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hitaus is ovaaaaa

Phantom pains were something she’d only ever heard about in the stories. Here, it was a regular phenomenon. Morgan could still feel the sting of finger-like blades slicing into her skin. Quentin told her about the dream demon before. Morgan realized she had it easier than him, though the high schooler would disagree. He had his share of Ghostface. A silent, horrifying killer, much like a specter phasing through the darkness, arriving unannounced and disturbingly stoic. At least until Morgan showed up, then he’d turn into something else. Someone entirely different, like a wild card suddenly flung out into the field.

The deep voice of the burned monstrosity lingered in her head. Freddy Kreuger was his name. A literal nightmare—shaped as a man—Morgan wished she had a better idea of how to face him. Even after the trial, she felt she’d earned nothing. She hadn’t even noticed she was dreaming until his gangly form leapt from the generator itself like a spider inside of a faucet. He grabbed her and hoisted her up, pushed her against the wall and up into the ceiling where she was tossing and turning with fear. Raw hate, his dark eyes promised carnage.

 _You’re too old for me,_ he said. _Camera boy’s got bad taste._

She’d been insulted if it were any other man in any other place but there. Spitting on his face only made him laugh. With such a scrawny build he had a voice deep like a baritone. Five blades slashed her back when she barely escaped, and all the while he howled derogatory insults that no one should ever hear. Wounds were all mended, but there was still that numbing ache. Like her body couldn’t quite forget the trauma it had endured.

 _Camera boy, huh? So killers really do know each other._ At the very least, she hadn’t been plunged against the Ghostface. Morgan fiddled with her camera, relieved the damage had been long gone. Much like their own bodies, even their special little items would return to their normal state upon entering the cold, dark prison of false memories and fake locations. Ensnared by the sheer thought of their opposers being stuck together in a similar situation, she began to contemplate their conditions.

Were they all huddle around a campfire too?

Were they frightened, or did they hate each other?

Could they… see them now?

Morgan wondered how Susie was doing. The thought of the girl evoked no feelings outside of a constant worry. To her, it was just a misfortunate teenage girl. She remembered when Susie went on about someone named Frank. Frank said this, Frank said that… Morgan never met a Frank that she knew of. That implied they were together though, at least the legion, though it made sense given the name. Perhaps the Entity had a twisted sense of humor? It could be no one wanted to be there, even if they thought they did.

“Is it worth it?” she heard Meg ask beside her. Startled, she hadn’t even noticed the girl waltzing up to her. Morgan had nested herself a bit of a distance away from the group, the light from the fire barely casting its glow against her back as the obtrusive figures of her fellow survivor’s blocked the warm glow from reaching her spot. She’d do this sometimes. Isolate herself in a little lonely place on the dirty ground, not too far from the others but far enough to fade out their conversations into undecipherable banter when not listening. Then she’d just stare…

Stare into the foggy void that probably led to an ongoing trial, to someone’s demise as they strived to get out and come back to the campfire—a place so miserable and unpromising that any viewer outside of this place would detest the thought. The others simply assumed that she was keeping watch in case the killers returned to pry upon their business, their only point of privacy and safety. A select few were much more observant than that.

Meg Thomas—not only was she quick and quiet, but she had a tendency of staring a little too hard. At this moment, Morgan realized that she wasn’t being that awkward college freshman that still suffered from nosy high schooler syndrome, but she was in fact observing.

“Is what worth it?” Morgan asked, her voice cracking from being so terribly dry. The soot from the fire always clung into her throat and made her cough. Scooting next to her, the woman mirrored her sitting arrangement and craned her neck back. The tip of Meg’s pointy nose pointed high, her brows knitted, and eyes fixed solely onto Morgan.

“You know what I mean.”

She always gave a know-it-all vibe when she talked. A brow rose on Morgan’s face, her eyes returned to the thick fog that rolled across the grassy knoll as she ran the pad of her finger along her favorite camera lens in little circles.

“It’s the only thing that will keep me sane,” Morgan explained. The prying look on Meg’s face went away, and she only casted a look of mutual understanding. Silence was something Morgan had always been fond of, though she could tell the young runner could beg to differ. The way her leg bounced told Morgan how angsty she was getting, but for whatever reason she decided to stay with the contained yet passionate revolutionist for the time being. Morgan set an internal timer, and she counted the seconds until Meg would start a conversation.

_… 28, 29, 30, 31…_

“What was your life like? Before you got here?” Meg asked, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “I mean, I know you worked for the police and all, but what were you like outside of work? Did you have any friends or roommates or something? Hot bosses, fat cop coworkers worth mentioning?”

Snickering, Morgan brushed her messy hair back and decided to loosen her muscles. Feeling the moist, cold dirt beneath her palms, she leaned back and kicked her feet forward. The sky was a dark, endless night with no light outside of the single moon that gleamed not with a soft glimmer but a forebodingness that still chilled her to the core.

“Quiet. I was a boring workaholic, though I would have never realized that had I not come here. Always on call, ate two meals a day, exercised when I could… the whole nine yards of _awesomely plain._ ” Meg grinned to that, finding the older woman’s dry humor refreshing from the loud boisterousness of the group she’d just abandoned. Yeah, cracking sex jokes and insults with Dave made her feel as close to home as she could get, but this was a running up second. Morgan felt like older sister quality that she—like lots of the other younger survivors—couldn’t get enough of.

“I can’t imagine you being boring.”

“Most people would disagree. I’m different around some people though. My dad, my sister…” then she trailed off, making Meg’s face turn soft. Softer than she’d ever seen the hardened young woman ever look. It made Morgan’s skin crawl.

“Who’s that one guy?” Meg asked. Morgan rose a brow.

“Which one?”

The girl pointed to her camera, “The one that gave you that, or I’m assuming. You touch it whenever you talk about him. Is he your friend?”

_So she noticed that?_

Even though it was for such a brief amount of time she was still caught in the act. Chuckling at herself, she cursed those little moments she opened herself up and decided to be the open book for Meg to ingest for the night. The girl was nice, and she’d been one of the first to jump into supporting Morgan, Adam, and Nancy’s outrageous theories since the very beginning.

“Jed Olsen,” she said. “And the rest is complicated.”

Meg went _aaaaaahhhh_ with a striking glisten in her eye, her lips perking into a subtle little smirk that made Morgan think of a gremlin.

“So he’s your boyfriend.”

The photographer was about to object to that, and yet she couldn’t find the will to disengage that topic from happening. Guilt filled up in the pit of her stomach like she was about to drown in it.

“Got a picture of him?”

Maybe it was about time she stopped hiding him from the world. Taking a moment to fiddle with her camera, she pulled up a picture and showed Meg. She stared at it with a cheeky smile.

“Woah, he’s _really_ freaking cute.”

Oddly enough, Morgan took that as a compliment. Leaning back to her spot, she watched the fog swirl before them and wondered if it were alive. Every spiral looked like fingers reaching out for nothing, eternally grasping like lost spirits desperate for escape. For salvation. Yet never earning it. “You know, I’ve been trying to deny it for so long, but I think it’s starting to make me look stupid,” Morgan sighed.

“If you ask me you look like a girl that wonders how it happened.”

Morgan chuckled, raising her camera, the large lens bulbous and shining as it tilted toward Meg. “It’s just the usual Hollywood plot. An overly optimistic journalist and an abrasive forensic photographer are thrusted together by a grueling string of horrendous murders all happening in the small, quaint little town of Roseville, Florida,” Morgan explained, tone lighthearted as if it were normal. Meg’s nose wrinkled.

“You’re joking… that killer that showed up when you did. That’s the one, right?”

“Yep,” Morgan’s lips popped. Meg casted her eyes low, her fingers clenching into small fists.

“My life was normal before I got here. You, Tapp, Laurie, Quentin, Steve and Nancy… it’s like you guys were ripped out of some horror movie.”

Hearing that made the invisible weight on Morgan’s shoulders bear down tremendously harder. Her voice darkened as she contemplated out loud. “It’s funny, it really is isn’t it? And—here’s the plot twist—the killer took a liking to our otherwise uninteresting heroine. No matter where she goes, what she does, who she’s with, he’s watching.” Meg’s expression was low as she pieced together the disturbing events of Morgan’s pervious life. “You know how horror movies go, right? What usually happens to the people that the main character cares for?”

Meg swallowed hard and contemplated her words, “Jed… is he…?”

That earned her a somber look from Morgan, her tired eyes staring down at her camera once more. “I don’t know. The Ghostface says he’ll tell me if I find out who he is. Haven’t yet.”

The young girl was absentmindedly hugging her legs tighter. She stared down at the dirt with a thoughtful glance. “… you know, usually in horror movies the heroine knows who the killer is from the beginning.”

Oh, she knew that. She contemplated that already. Countless times did she consider everyone she knew, but that number was so limited with few and even further between. Most of the people from that list were cops or worked for the force, which didn’t mean the were automatically excluded. There was the bartender at the one pub she was a regularly at monthly, and then the nice guy she talked to when there. Then there were women, but that didn’t broaden out the list all too much. It should have been easy.

Yet it wasn’t.

“Yeah well, that’s horror movies. In real life, crazy people don’t need a reason to follow anyone. They just do it.”

That’s why they were considered crazy. Most of the people there had never firsthand experienced someone who was clinically insane in the real world, or at the very least their handywork. Morgan was chock full of stories. Countless times had she spoken of the occasional murders she had to snap photos of prior to the arrival of the Ghostface: a father who was brutally chopped by his underage daughter and her adult boyfriend with an axe for disapproving their relationship, a pervert who kidnapped little girls that he saw walking home from school, a sex trafficker with a basement-turned torture chamber that kept a woman hostage for fourth whole months. The last one was back when she lived in the city.

“It is worth it. Working until I can’t feel my limbs, until my head is spinning and I’m about to hurl. For something that I don’t even know if it’s going to work out or not. Because it’s the only thing that keeps my mind rolling,” Morgan finally admitted.

“From worrying about Jed,” Meg added in, and there was nothing but honesty in her voice. Morgan closed her eyes and listened to the rambling behind them. Listened to the hollow sounds of the open, frozen field and the trees that shifted in the weak breeze. Her short brown hair brushed along her shoulders, flowing back with the breeze. It would have felt nice if it didn’t stink of ash and bog. Yeah, that sounded about right.

_Meg’s right._

A loud burst of laughter made them jump. Morgan glanced over, her brows knitting tightly together at the sight of the group encircled around the fire. At first, they seemed depressed and distant with each other, and it concerned Morgan. But then one of them jolted up, the group breaking into loud, rambunctious laughter. Admittedly, Morgan was stunned. Such high-spiritedness was rare, even after the great cause to win some supposed battle against the entity was shared amongst them. A smile graced Morgan’s tired face. Good, they were genuinely beginning to depend on each other rather than themselves. It was a good sign. Standing up, Morgan dusts her backside off before offering a hand to Meg. The girl stood, being hoisted up with easy, and they return themselves to the small group. Taking a seat, they jump into the story late.

Tears welled up in their eyes. Morgan felt somewhat bitter for missing the much need opportunity for laughter, but luckily Ace was far from satiated.

“S-Say it again! Say it again!” Ace howled, and King bit down hard on his lip as he struggled to suppress his infamous snorting—a quirk of his that spread like wildfire once discovered, much to his dismay.

“Alroight, alroight! So I wos walkin’ down the pub, yeah? Had me a few drinks when out comes this man dressed like a damn… oh shit,” his energetic story telling came to a sad, painful halt. Before Morgan looked down, she just knew it was happening again. There was a coldness and a sudden dizzy spell. Morgan felt lightheaded as she mumbled before slipping into a sleep.

“I can’t seem to get a break.”

It was constant. Perhaps because she’d already been growing tired of the trials, so maybe it was all in her head. Surely, no one could blame her for becoming strained. She’d held out long enough. Longer than any normal person. But now wasn’t the time to give up. Not when so many promising things have happened. So many implications that what they’d been doing had probably been working. She had to make it out alive.

No… someone had to. Anybody who didn’t want to be there. She didn’t care who. And somebody had to make the grueling charge toward such an unobtainable goal. That was the only thing driving her hope. That, and the need to _know_ what the Entity was, and what it truly wanted and _why_. There was determination like fire inside of her as all faded into black; weak, yet still so very unyielding.

_Time to play…_

When she came to, it was within a dark, gloomy building with tall concrete walls and shelving that nearly reached the ceiling. Hooks creaked in the stillness of the silent surroundings. No animals howled in agony much like in the many other playgrounds of the entity’s choosing. Oddly enough, this terrible quiet disturbed Morgan the most. To her left, she heard a shaken breath being taken. It was Kate.

The despicable cold was already spreading goosepimples along the bare flesh of her arms and legs. As she rubbed her arms for the small bit of comfort desperately, she shuffled down to a crouch beneath a large metal storage crate and joined with Morgan. Their backs pressed firmly upon the surface, their breaths in sync as they waited out the first few minutes of what felt was going to be a very long, tedious trial. As the blonde woman shivered from the chill, Morgan’s fingers gripped desperately upon her camera to do a rushed assessment of her key item.

“I hate this place, it’s the worse,” Kate said, desperately wanting to break the ice. It appeared she, too, couldn’t stand the silence.

“This is Gideon Meat Plant, Tapp drew out a map of it once.” Recalling the particular event, Morgan scrolled though her camera and found the stick drawn map on dirt that he’d made ages ago. Tilting the screen toward Kate, they studied the two-floored layout for some time. “Let’s start working on the generator in the center of this floor. It looks to be one of the harder ones to get down, followed by the one near the stairwell downstairs.”

“This one’s dangerous too, it’s in a corner… there aren’t any exits near it. Someone could be easily cornered,” Kate added, pointing to yet another one. Already was Morgan seeing the outplay of their situation. Tactically contemplating their current odds, it would be difficult to approach anything without knowing what they were up against. Chances were, it was somebody silent. They’d been sitting there for perhaps two minutes without any sounds of shrieks or the thrumming of their hearts from a killer closing in. Feeling the blonde’s shoulder jerk violently against her, Morgan looked up to gaze at Kate’s glacier blue eyes. She was listening, only she shivered madly. Indeed, the building was incredibly cold, perhaps to recreate its original conditions. Given it used to be a meat plant it only seemed to fit the profile. With a small smile, Morgan slipped off her knitted coat and handed it to her. Beneath, she sported a loose-fitting black tank top. Already she felt her skin tingling from the chill the moment it left her body. Kate looked at her with disbelief.

“A-Are you sure?”

“It’s fine, I used to live in Colorado. I’m pretty used to the cold.”

 _Used_ to live. Florida never got nearly as cold as Colorado, and she hadn’t seen the snow state in over six years. Fingering her jean shorts, Morgan bit at the low temperatures and took her mind off it. If she simply convinced herself that it wasn’t so cold, then it wouldn’t bother her anymore. Kate pulled on the sweater, body absorbing the residual heat that it’d soaked up from its last user. The woman purred, unable to hold in her delighted sigh. There was a light fog seething from her mouth when she talked, but not as thick as when they were on Ormond.

“If the killer shows up, let them chase me… I’m pretty good at losing them. Okay?”

Morgan frowned again, but she accepted the proposal. The whole point was to build off each other’s strengths while fortifying the weaknesses. Morgan wasn’t the best at running, but she was damn good at keeping herself from being caught. Not only that, but she excelled in difficult rescues. Thinking smart last moment wasn’t exactly something they all could do, so when Morgan was there, it only made sense to use her when she served best. The women traversed across the various large, open rooms. Tinkering noses and the soft rattle of a generator in the earlier stages reached their ears. Ace worked discreetly upon the generator, his fingers so painfully slow as she twisted wires together, mindful not to zap himself and jolting. Tugging hard on the wires always would cause an explosion.

“Ace,” Kate whispered, joining his side. The man jumped slightly, but not enough to make a mistake.

“Geez, almost killed us there,” he joked, voice wavering as he swallowed away the fear. Soon, all three of them were working on the generator. It was pushed flush against a wall, a large metal door on the east side behind Morgan and a door not far from Kate’s back. Ace’s back faced the open room, the sweat building up along his brow beneath the rim of his cap as he whispered to himself words of encouragement. People often mocked him for it or complained. The chattering was seen as distracting or annoying, but the women didn’t mind. Anything to keep the man from making mistakes. The greater they progressed, the louder it always got. Metal pistons gunned within the hull of the mechanism and caused it to rattle violently. It made it increasingly difficult to work without making a mistake. The cold nipped at Morgan’s skin. Her shirt began to roll, revealing some of her mid drift. Her abdomen felt the kiss of the low temperatures, but she bit down on her tongue to ignore the sensation. This wouldn’t be such a big deal if she weren’t so on edge. A few times she’d almost screwed everything up because of the incessant shivering.

Ace paused just as they were near finishing, his eyes wandering up as he turned his attention with a slack mouth.

“ ** _Behind_** -” he began, the generator casting out a loud explosion that rung deep in Morgan’s ears. Sparks flew into her eyes, forcing them shut, and the sound of Kate’s sudden frightening scream forced draw back against the wall in reflex. Hidden in the tight corner between the generator and the cold concrete, Morgan watched Ace’s fleeing form as Kate was thrown hard onto the ground. A leather-cladded figure pinned her down effortlessly. Various belts flew about like fleshy tendrils and made Morgan’s already thrumming heart race faster. _It’s him,_ she thought, her throat tightening. She couldn’t swallow the fear like she usually could. _It’s him, he’s here._ Terror filled her veins, fueling the agonizing pain from her jittering organ as it beat harder and faster from how _close_ he was. She hated him. Oh she hated him so much, but she was so damn afraid of him too. The memory of him pinning her down. Not like what he did with Kate, but different. There was a tenderness with just as equal in cruelty when he handled Morgan. It made her skin shiver yet burn. Ache yet crawl. Then she heard his voice—just a simple noise and nothing more—and already did Morgan’s mind echo with that crazed, diabolical laugh.

Ghostface made a surprised noise at the sight of Kate cowering beneath him, her body frozen still from the fear that his sheer presence brought her. He’d shown up so suddenly without warning. No heavy footsteps, no breathing. Kate had faced Laurie’s brother. Like a shape, a shadow of a man, stalking the halls and growing in ruthlessness. There was no hate in Michael Myers. Only cause and effect. The killing wasn’t an art but a process. He snuck well because he never taunted like Krueger and never stomped his feet with a desire to intimidate like the robust trapper. Yet he breathed so loudly that in a trial where all seemed to start out slow it was the first thing any who faced him would listen for.

Morgan and Kate concentrated so hard for that breathing, they didn’t even realize to listen for the quiet, firm snapping of leather swishing around in the air. For the flutter of a cloak as one moved across the halls.

 _“Huh, you’re not who I thought you were,”_ he spoke slowly, steadily, and the sound of his voice made Kate’s eyes widen. In all the trials she’d faced against him, she had never heard him spoken before. He’d laugh, cackle, and grunt with a seething annoyance when tossing pallets over his head or when his knife dug into a window seal and not flesh, but never spoken. Gloves squeaked as he placed his hand beside her head, right upon her sandy golden locks that curled betrayingly around his fingers. A steady breath came from what she could hear to be parted lips, his true voice echoing beneath the false one that hauntingly sounded like one a sick psycho would sport. The kind a of voice one would have whilst making disturbing phone calls to women late at night. With the tip of his hooked blade he tugged at the collar of the familiar knitted grey sweater and tilted his head, the squeak of leather and plastic from the motion deafening.

“Tryin’ ta trick old Ghostface… huh?” he whispered threateningly, and Kate reflexively shook her head.

“W-What?” she began to stutter, but the sudden slash of his knife against the rough floor startled a yelp from her. The noise was painful—Morgan pressed down hard on her ears from such a sound—like nails on a chalkboard. Sparks flew from the friction. Kate’s eyes welled with tears as Ghostface waggled his knife disapprovingly at her, the sharp edge dangerously fanning too closely near her eyes.

“Aweee, did the cute little girl think she had the right to talk to _me_?” he said in a playful, sweeting sounding tone, hunching dangerously close until she smelt the lingering scent of his humid breath beneath the plastic mask. Kate whimpered, her body pressing harder against the ground as she shuddered beneath his gaze. But then he snapped his gloved fingers, leaning surprisingly far back and giving Kate a generous amount of breathing room. Pointing down at her wide-eyed form he suddenly recalled something. “Hey, you’re that chick who plays guitar, right? Yeah, yeah! I call you Janis Joplin!” Ghostface paused hauntingly, “Wait… you do… _know_ … who that is, do you?” he asked, knife pressing against her cheek when she took too long to answer. Kate nodded frantically, earning a feather light scratch upon her skin. The tears began to flow. He sighed with estranged relief.

“Thank goodness. All those other blood hungry bozos either are too young to know who I’m talking about, or too _old_ that she’s _waaay_ after their time. How the hell does that make sense?” The killer was babbling, making normal conversation with her. He’d never done anything like this before.

“Tell you what, you tell me where **_she_** is, and I’ll pretend you’re not here so long as you don’t let me find you again,” he proposed, rubbing the knitted fabric fondly between his gloved fingers. Kate’s eyes widened at the realization. The fear remained, but it mixed with a sudden surge of disgust. From behind his broad shoulder, she spotted Morgan hidden behind the generator. The photographer hadn’t left yet, perhaps too stunned. Without thinking, Kate tugged the fabric from his grasp, hugging herself in a futile effort to keep it and herself away from his grasp. Ghostface, with his head tilted, pointed his knife to her and began to sway with uneven laughter. It started out quiet, chilly, before piercing the air, mirroring an escaped lunatic running free down the highway. “Last chance!” he warned, hand reaching out as if asking for something as he continued to pin her to the ground with his legs.

“As if I’d help you, you damn creep!” Kate cried out. Even when a generator popped with life somewhere downstairs, he didn’t care. Ghostface rose up a bit more, one of his fists clutching against the knitted fabric dangerously as he rose his knife over his head. There was a quiver in his voice as he broke into a violent outburst of twisted impatience.

“Guess what, Janis Joplin?! You just earned yourself a spot in my fucking _dead idiots scrap book!”_

The generator coming to life behind him startled the killer enough to turn his head. Morgan had completed the generator, her body rigid as she stumbled back toward the steel door that was beginning to screech open behind her. The killer’s breath caught at the sight of her, his guard lowering slightly as he intensely watched Morgan with that terrifying mask. It made her skin slick with fresh sweat. Rearing his arm up, he intended to slaughter Kate first. Morgan scrambled for her camera, about to flash as many times as it would allow, but Kate reared her foot up and kicked the man above her. He wheezed, his body rolling off in one foul swoop. Hands nestled between his thighs, a deadly curse slithering sinisterly under his breath as he pressed his masked forehead upon the ground firmly. Then he banged his head violently into the paved floor, seething out threat after dreadful threat with each hit.

**_“I’ll get you Janis… fuckin’ swear I will. I’ll get you, just you wait a minute. Better start runnin’…!”_ **

“Go Morgan!” Kate screamed, having raced down the path that Ace had fled through long ago. Morgan stalled, nearly hitting her head on the rising door that was being swallowed by the ceiling. Fully opened, she tailed out fast as Ghostface messily pushed himself upon a knee, and then another, before rigidly standing himself up. The man seethed like a vicious snake, running with a messy stumble as he used the various corners and industrial shelving as support, tailing after not Morgan but Kate.

 _She’s got this, she said she’s got this,_ Morgan kept telling herself, her hands reaching up to press over her wet eyes. She didn’t even notice she was crying. “Calm down,” she hissed. She just couldn’t get herself to move that entire time. The fear had glued her into that hiding spot. Shaking her head, Morgan found herself in some sort of loading dock with a loan generator. Not intending to let Kate’s distraction go in vain, Morgan began working. Brows knitted tightly; her fingers slippery as she handled the smelly, rusty bolts that she’d stuffed in her pocket shared to her by one of the other survivors. Replacing missing ones made the process move smoother. Occasionally she’d fan a glance through the room around her in fear of him silently appearing. He was quiet—so damn quiet—no one else was like him. The spirit always left a chill in the air that rattled like bursting ice or snapping glass, and the wraith yielded heavy footsteps. The pig-faced woman sported red, and before each slash she would make a gruesome grunt from all the effort she made to lunge.

Ghostface, on the other hand, was perfectly silent.

Only when he ran could she hear him, and that was from the flutter of his coat and whipping of his belts. A scream rattled somewhere downstairs. Morgan heard the screech of agony as it bounced off the walls of the enclosed compound, growing louder before completely dying out. It sounded like a woman, and she feared it was Kate. The generator was nearing completion, and she contemplated leaving it. _You’re almost done, just finish it and it’ll lead him there. Use that opportunity to make an opening for them._ It was hard, but Morgan coaxed herself into staying. Another scream.

It troubled Morgan. Ghostface never worked so mercilessly upon the others. Never abandoned her to turn his attention on someone else. Perhaps he was trying something new?

Perhaps he was trying to appease the Entity?

That would have been a major problem. At least with Ghostface, he’d waste his time with Morgan. The rule of thumb for all survivors was once he had Morgan, to let him have her. Unless she were incapacitated or hooked, then protect her, because it was the only way to ensure all got out. If he changed tactics, then it changed everything about this game.

Dammit, she didn’t even know who her fourth ally was yet.

The moment the generator lights gleamed bright she beelined for the next hangar over, stopping at every corner and keeping as low as her legs allowed her. No dark figure was peaking around the corner. She couldn’t feel her heart thrumming with that tall tell sign that _he_ was so terribly nearby. A large cutout upon the ground led to the bottom floor. Morgan—after verifying that the coast was clear—laid on the ground and hung her head low over the edge. Scanning the area, she found it clear.

The drop was high and left an aching pressure in her joints. Stunned by the drop, she remained couched and listened to the melancholy darkness that made the air weighty. There was a vast contrast in the aura there compared to upstairs. Though all of this place was horrifying, something about the ground floor made her wish she weren’t there even more. It was darker, the air felt its coldest, and a light fog drifted through the tight corridors and wide rooms full of nothing but crates and old water barrels. She wondered if anyone else were down here, but the contemplating was cut short. A person’s sounds of painful whimpering drifted faintly ahead. Low to the ground, Morgan inched closer down the hallway, peaking into the room to see Ace hanging high upon that painful, punishing post. A slow breath turned foggy as it exited her mouth. First, she assessed her surroundings.

Clear to the left.

Clear to the right.

Clear behind her.

Morgan made quick yet quiet steps forward, her arms reaching forward, ready to attempt to lift the larger man from the hook that pierced his shoulder. A mere three feet away from looping a finger around his, Ghostface lashed out from the corner like a viper. The knife sliced into Morgan’s arm, her body stumbling back until she hit the ground hard. Pain radiated from her swollen tailbone, her limbs kicking her back pathetically and leaving a small blood trail as her arm smeared painfully against the gritty floor. Ghostface wiped the blade clean between his thick fingers when she finally pushed herself up. From behind, Ace held the hook with his good arm, his face streaked with tears and face pulled into one of agony. He would have tried to lift himself, but he was too scared to face the pain. Behind them she saw the braided pigtails of Meg, blood running from her back where he must have slashed her. Chances was she got away fast after he landed that first hit, and he stumbled upon Ace while trying to find her. It appeared she was waiting for an opportunity to save their troubled friend.

Realized what she had to do, Morgan swallowed hard and delayed her escape a few seconds. She’d give him chase for as long as possible until she either lost him—rarely did that happen—or until he caught up to her. It was foolish, but she was more than willing. With a tilt of his head he watched her retreating form with morbid curiosity, but he didn’t pursue. Morgan paused, watching behind her shoulder to see him glued to his spot.

He wasn’t following her.

 _What… what is he doing?_ Never did he withhold himself after catching a sight of her. Dark, thick boots—steel toed and tied tight with black laces—squeaked slightly as he shifted his weight, his arms down his sides as he gripped his knife tight and simply watched her. Feeling the air thicken even more, Morgan hissed, heart beating frantically but arms pounding the feeling away defiantly upon her chest. There was a fear of him lunging suddenly, so she was well prepared to run, but when nothing happened, she faced him shakily with a nasty, fearful glare.

“Well?” she croaked, raising her arms despite the bleeding. “Are you bored of me already?”

He shook his head, slowly, hands resting behind his back and feigning innocence. Morgan hated how the knife was no longer in her sight. Hated how quiet he was being. Hidden behind the many boxes, Meg watched the ordeal, her gaze shifting from Ace back to the killer. She was restless, waiting, but having no opportunity to act. Inside her chest, Morgan’s heart raced into overdrive. As the Entity’s claws slowly began to form, twitching hungrily like an eager spider, she quickly grew panicked from their pressed time. Ace visibly became distraught, legs kicking stiffly as he struggled to escape. The more pain they felt, the more eager the Entity became. _Don’t Ace,_ Morgan thought, _you’ll burn the time. Just wait…!_

“Chase me,” Morgan asked with a strained voice. “Aren’t I who you want?!”

Ghostface nodded wordlessly. For some reason, not hearing his deranged voice frightened her more. It was… unbecoming of him to be so quiet. So elusive. The boom of a generator goes not far off on their floor, yet he didn’t even budge. Raising a bloody index finger, he waggled it side to side disapprovingly toward Morgan.

“What are you doing?” she muttered confusingly. The Entity’s claws curve down, the talons inches from Ace’s chest. He caught the approaching pike and fought desperately against it, but with his blood coated hands he was having great difficulty holding it back. Meg shuffled silently with growing desperation, swallowing her whimpers of pain. In seconds, she just might try to save the man. If that were the case, then what should Morgan do?

“… please, leave him alone,” Morgan begged, watching the fear swirling in Ace’s eyes. Her soft plea made Ghostface’s head tilt. It wasn’t often she begged for anything. Come to think of it, she never begged to him before. Morgan took a slow, weary step forward. When Ghostface only watched, she goes to take a second. Carefully, alert, she aimed to try and unhook the man herself should the killer give her the chance. But Ghostface suddenly lashed forward when she got too close, greatly missing her. He’d intended it to be a warning and nothing more. Yelping, she jumped back, barely catching herself. Still, he was too close to Ace for Meg to save him. Clutching her bleeding arm she grimaced at the killer with unquenchable hate. She cried out, tears burning her eyes as she shook her head furiously. This was all so damn frustrating. She couldn’t stand it. People needed to escape. Everyone had to _live._ If anyone should die by a killer’s hands—especially **_his_** —it should have been her. And to die by the Entity. To let it feed off them left a bitter, vile taste in her mouth. She wanted to vomit, but she’d experienced enough of that facing the Plague for the very first time.

She planned so much. She tried so hard.

Why did everything fall apart so catastrophically when up against **_him_**?

 _“You aren’t playing by the fucking rules!!!”_ Morgan screamed so loud she nearly blew out her own voice. Ghostface curled his neck to the side, his head shifting like he’d let out some inaudible laugh. Suddenly, he turned on his heel, and in a flash drove his knife deep into Ace’s vulnerable body. The man cried out a noise blended with shock and distress. Meg dove back into her hiding spot just in time for the killer to not take notice of her. Stab after horrible stab, she watched as Ace’s grip instantly let up and the Entity’s spiked claws consumed him into the darkness that swirled above. Like a black fog, it swallowed up his body that faded away, leaving behind only the stinging scent of burning flesh and rot that filled her nostrils. Shocked, Morgan watched as the Ghostface slowly turned to face her, his once pristine mask splattered with red droplets of fresh blood.

“… this is **my** game… I make my own rules. And you, Morgan, you’re my main character,” he explained. Her skin was covered in goose pimples, face twisting with disbelief at what he was saying.

“What?” she spat, feeling the warm blood rolling down her arm and staining her knuckles. “Why me? What’s so **special** about me…?” she raved, the words burning as they came out. Dammit, she needed to know so much, but at the same time she didn’t want to. Would the answer even make sense? She remembered her conversation she had with Meg not so long ago. A conversation she had with many people in her field, as well as the first thing Joseph Fields ever told her when she began working for him.

_Remember Morgan, in bloody cases like these don’t go trying to reason like a normal person, because crazy people don’t need a reason to do anything. They just do it._

All at once she wanted to scream, cry, and laugh. Teeth bore down so hard on her bottom lip she almost drew blood. “I don’t get it. What the hell did I possibly do to be noticed by you? Why couldn’t you have left **us** alone!”

_If you’d only left us alone… we could have been something._

She wouldn’t have been here, in this nonstop never-ending nightmare. She could have been that stupid, silly little housewife. Quit her depressing job and wait for him to come home, all the while perfecting her art and probably working as a freelance photographer. Her real dream. And he’d come home after a day of interviewing and writing, look at her prints because he actually cared, and tell her she was doing _great_. She was getting _better_. She was _worth_ _something_. He’d love her in a way she never deserved. For once, she could _finally_ be an open book to someone. Not strive so hard to be that type of person she damn hated to see in the mirror, with baggy eyes and a psyche so close to cracking if she thought about what she had to witness last week, and last night, and an hour ago for just a _second_ too long. Wouldn’t have to constantly be on guard. Be a normal person that gave some nice guy the chance to care about her.

And she’d love him back, no holdbacks.

Ghostface faced her fully, but she was so caught up waiting for his answer she didn’t do anything to protect herself. Still grasping her bleeding arm, she felt the slippery hot texture of blood seeping between her fingers, the daze from blood loss clouding up her brain.

He breathed loudly, pointing his knife toward her to accentuate every word leaving his mouth. “ **Everything**. **Everything** about you is the reason. I just _knew_ from the moment I locked eyes with you the possibilities, and the _more_ I played, the _more_ I realized that you were the one that would make me **feel** really… _fucking_ … **_good_** _!”_

Voice ringing in her ears, she shook her head, unable to decipher the madness spiraling out of him. With a long, heavy, eerie sigh, Ghostface placed a bloody hand over his forehead, smearing the blood across the skin of the mask even further.

“So you’ve been caught up with all this _why meeee_ shit, huh? Wasting your time on something so miniscule… what a predictable move. Just like in the movies. I’m disappointed, but I’m letting it slide, Morgy baby. Besides… shouldn’t you be worrying about something… _someone_ … **_else_**?”

 **“Shut up!”** she barked full of hatred, taking a threatening step forward. Ghostface hummed at the bold act, finding her actions surprising and adorable. “What did you do to him? What did you do to **Jed**?!”

Never in a million years could she understand what nonsense he was spewing out. Blood stained the floor beneath where Ace once hanged. The room smelt of iron and sweat. She should have been looking deeper into his rambling, studying the words and remembering them. Using the suggestions as a means to find out who he was. Someone she should have been worrying about… that someone he dangled before her like a treat over a starved dog. Fingers quaked. She wanted to both run away and strangle him, but she couldn’t think anything logical. Do anything helpful. Eyes reared open wide enough to tear, she watched her quivering fingers and let out a breath so staggered she almost choked from the lack of oxygen. Liquid white rage bubbled in the corners of her vision. Meg could only watch the troublesome scene and hope for the better. “Nuh, uh, uh. Patience. Unfortunately, daddy’s gotta work. You be a good little girl and just stand there looking pretty for me,” he wiggled his knife teasingly. Luckily, Ghostface didn’t strike the woman but rather stalked out of the room and vanished from their sights. He’d left her behind, even though she was oh so vulnerable. Even though he made it so obvious that he wanted her more than anything else in this world and the last, and perhaps even the next.

In disbelief she stared at the corridor, expecting him to come charging back to stab her mercilessly. But he didn’t. “Wait…” she muttered, stumbling forward toward the very place he’d left. The pang of terror in her heart was gone, replaced with utter confusion. She’d almost forgotten Meg had been hiding nearby. Arms wrapped around her cold shoulders, Meg’s hushed voice speaking harshly into her ear.

“C’mon, we gotta do a gen!”

“I need to know Meg, that fucking bastard has to tell me,” Morgan choked, attempting to tail after him. To get the damn answer for her greatest, biggest question to ever arise in all her damn life, however much longer that would be. Hands gripped her face, spinning her around so fast she’d almost snapped her neck. Dazed, Morgan looked to a very serious Meg, the fear in her red eyes so terribly evident as her voice jittered beneath her pressed teeth.

“Morgan! We have. To get. The gens done.”

 _The gens… yeah. The gens._ Closing her eyes, Morgan took a deep breath, trying best to calm her quaking nerves. A loud boom of a generator, a scream from a familiar voice. The two recognized it to be Kate’s and they wasted no time in beelining for the loud commotion that was echoing up the stairwell. Kate ran to the top floor, the Ghostface pursuing her fast with his knife held high above his head.

**_“C’mere Janis!!!”_ **

A barrel came rolling down the staircase, the Ghostface barely dodging the dangerous force. “Go away!” Kate screamed, striding away with the click of her cowboy boots echoing in the hollow building. A growl snarled from his throat, his body chasing after her furiously. Morgan wanted to follow, but the sound of a generator nearly completed echoed downstairs.

“Let’s finish the generator while Kate’s distracting him.”

“Alright.”

Damn, it hurt to say, but the priorities were obvious.

The clacking sounds of them fiddling with the metal workings died down the sounds of threats of screaming upstairs. Sweat rolled down Morgan’s back, her eyes looking to Meg who was comparing bolt sizes with greasy, shaken hands. She rolled one on until her fingers tightened as much as they could.

“This should keep the piston from getting unaligned.”

The older woman nodded before returning her attention to the dirty wires. They were old and frayed, the protective plastic covering peeling open in some sections. Mindful not to zap herself, she twisted the ends together before gently placing it back in. “Meg, when this is finished, find the next generator. I’ll go help Kate.”

“You know that won’t work.”

Meg was right, but that didn’t sway her mind. The decision had already been made, ever since they heard that final cry of despair somewhere overhead. The painful thrum returned to their chests only moments from completing the generator. They were directly above them. The floodlight was fed with power, the telling sign that they were finished. The sounds of Kate’s scampering feet were interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream so high that Morgan felt her ears begin to ring.

_Kate!_

“I’ll get him to drop her, go start the last generator!”

Meg nodded and was gone in a flash. Blood pumped down her legs as Morgan dashed for the stairwell, racing up to see Kate being carried away over the Ghostface’s broad shoulder. Little fists pounded against his back, his body stalking away to a hook that creaked all by its lonesome in the neighboring room. With her camera in hand she was quick to his side, the man glancing over for a second to see her camera positioned. Tilting his head away just in time, he dodged the bright flashing light and slashed his blade forward. The camera cord was cut, bashed from her hands and clattering onto the ground. The lens cracked with pieces of glass haling across the room. Mindlessly she reached for his wrist, catching his sleeve and pulling hard. The man was stronger, heavier, and with his weapon in hand he backhanded her.

**_CRACK!_ **

Everything went black. Whiplashed, Morgan fell over instantly and hit the ground hard. The sound of Kate screaming her name seemed awfully far away. At first, she’d thought he stabbed her in the cheek. Vision fading in and out, she reached up to feel the swelling area of her cheek bone as his feet came passing by her field of vision. Beneath her brutally swollen skin was a broken bone. He’d bashed her face with the blunt handle of his heavy knife.

“Morgan! Morgan!” Kate screamed, fists still pummeling against his back.

The sounds of Kate’s struggling were interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream so high pitched; Morgan felt her ears began to ring. Kate’s eyes were watery and apologetic. Giving all she’s got proved it wasn’t enough to get away. He’d relentlessly chased her, the top floor a messy evidence of all the violent pursuing. Above, the Ghostface stared at his freshly hung victim.

“Kate,” Morgan wheezed when the dirt of the ground entered her lungs. The stained blade rose into the air, and she watched him impale his knife deep into the woman’s chest. **Again** and **again** and **again.**

“ **Freedom’s** just another word for **nothin’** left to lose! **Nothin’** , don’t mean **nothin’** hon’ if it ain’t **free** , **no, NO, NO!!!”**

He was singing loudly, violently with every attack. Something warm splattered across Morgan’s face. She winced, lurching back. The world shifted beneath her like the sands beneath a wave. Like the whole ground was a waterbed. Memories of her and her sister tumbling down steep hills and laughing along the way. Enjoying the vertigo as they spun each other with daisy crowns falling from their bun up hair and sun-lit tears pearling along the corners of their eyelids. 

“That’s what you get for kicking me in the nuts, damn hippie.”

He spun fast on his heel, his belts whipping through the air like tails from a naughty feline. Kate was gone. Morgan hadn’t even noticed the life fade from her and the Entity feeding on the remains. Swallowed by darkness, it left behind a trail of shadows and ash spiraling until the used hook unlatched from its chain and came crashing down onto the floor. Blood splattered as it skidded forward, the Ghostface dropping his boot in the nick of time to catch it. In his hands was her jacket that he’d tugged free from Kate’s body before she was taken away, the knitted fabric littered with blood stains and cuts. It was gripped tightly in his fist, his knife tugged clean between his fingers. The noise it elicited was disgusting. Frightened and speechless, Morgan took a dangerously uneven step back. When he looked at her, his snickering voice intangible from the damage she’d just endured, Morgan pushed her body up and ran messily back down the stairs. Against her chest she pounded her fist, attempting to alleviate the terror as she battled to remain on her two feet. The world spun. Her ears rung as if she’d just survived a grenade blast. Upstairs he laughed hoarsely, possessed by some deranged excitement. Shit, her skull hurt so damn much. Morgan had never been punched before, let alone by a knife handle, wielded by a man who could carry virtually anybody over his shoulder. Clearly, this realm made him stronger somehow. Knelt over, she took a moment to heave and swallow the throw up that wanted to spill out.

_Go, go, go, don’t stop! Don’t turn around! Keep going!_

Panicking. She was panicking, but she still had Meg, she had to keep telling herself that. She still had Meg. She had to pull herself together for Meg.

For what felt like ages she was running around the compound, using her ears to try and find the sound of a generator being tinkered on. Sure enough, she heard the early stages of a repair. The room was small and confined, filled with lockers and showers yet horribly dirtied. Stains lined the floor. Whether it was old blood or mud she couldn’t find herself to care. The ringing was still buried deep in her ears, even when Meg looked up to her and spoke. Clearly she was startled by her sudden arrival.

“Morgan! Did Kate…”

Nodding, she instantly regretted the motion. Tumbling back, she hit the wall hard, her hand pressing over the area around her cheek bone and left eye. Fingers guided her hand away, and Meg took a look at the damage.

“It isn’t fatal. Can you work on the generator?”

“… yes.”

On her knees, she felt the cold touch of tile pressed against her flesh. Sometimes, Morgan felt weightless. Other times she could barely hold her arms up. Breathing deep, she stared at the contraption before her. It elicited the very same feelings she’d experienced when feasting her eyes on the table of elements in her first ever college chemistry class. Working tragically slow, she struggled to do the finer motor functions as Meg performed most of the load. _Don’t pass out,_ she told herself when her vision warped a tad bit. With a light shake of her head, her brain rattled about, and she kept on working. Through the nausea and through the searing pain that covered the entire left side of her face, she kept working. Yeah, the pain was bad, and the experience was both new and unbearable, but she’d keep working. She just had to.

By the toilets was a dead body—she’d only just noticed it—and Morgan wondered what happened to the corpse. What incredibly rare situation had forced them in such a terrible place with an even worse fate? Blood stained one of the toilet lids, and along the limb of the carcass was a chain wrapped tight to keep them at bay. Chances was they starved to death there. It wasn’t the worse way to die. Scurrying echoed from the only entrance, and Morgan froze oven as Meg turned her attention out the door. They waited for a few long eerie seconds.

“… is he there?” Morgan’s whisper was heavy. Relief filled her system when Meg shook her head.

“No… it was nothing. Keep working.”

Just a little over halfway. By now it would have been completed if Morgan was giving her all. Fiddling with wires, she struggled to determine if the one she was holding were white or yellow when the soft sound of feel landing made her quirk her head up. Ghostface had leapt from a hole in the ceiling, his movements so quiet and careful that Meg didn’t hear him sneaking up behind her.

A wrong tug, the generator popped just as the knife dug into the girl’s bare shoulder. She screamed as her body was flung down. Meg’s throat was gripped tightly between his grimy fingers. Pinned until her airways were blocked, she choked and kicked, her hands grasping up for his mask. Anything to try and force him off. He reared his head back, slashing at her fingers and cutting the soft flesh without even trying. Any noises of agony were muted by the humungous weight piling up on her throat. Morgan clashed against his body, nails digging into his back and scarring the leather. He felt warm, he had a heartbeat. He was disturbingly _human._ An elbow beat against her side hard, making her cough, but clung against his rose arm desperately, screams and profanity flowing from her mouth.

A gurgled cry choked from Meg’s lips. Straight through the chest, she could hear bones breaking and flesh rip against the serrated edge of the knife. Pushing herself off his body, Morgan limped back and gripped tightly her dark brown locks in horror, voice straining as she found her seething reach a boiling point. Tears flowed from her eyes, the swelling worsening along her face as dark purple started to form beneath the puffy skin. Ghostface stood suddenly, his heavy cloak fluttering as he turned to face her.

“Okay, little miss impatient! You’re turn!”

Morgan hissed, “You… you fucking **psycho**!”

Brandishing the knife over his head, Ghostface charged after her cornered form with deadly intent and slashed downward quicker than a bolt of a lightning. Her hands planted against the tiled wall behind her. Morgan launched out of the way, dodging the attack to push all her weight against his back. The killer toppled against the wall, his motions so fast and wild like a headless snake. In a flash he’d turned and slashed as he fell over, knife panging against shower heads and cracking old, crusty wall tiles. Morgan’s sudden jerk backwards landed her feet on a puddle of fresh blood. Her sneakers couldn’t get a good grip and the ground collided with her back, head beating with pain both new and old. Hands slipped along the sloppy floor, smearing the mixture of blood and dirt into a disgusting mud. Wails stricken with fright echoed in the tiled room. Morgan was breathing restlessly, her eyes frantically scanning the room for anything that could help her stand. Meg coughed, unable to move yet not quite dead, her eyes watching Morgan’s retreating form. Behind her, she could hear the converging echo of gritty boots. His breathing was loud and raspy, no longer was he trying to hide himself from her. This wasn’t working in her favor.

Nothing was working out.

It never did when up against him.

There was a stray pipe lying on the cold floor. Wrapping her fingers around it, she rolled to her back just when he’d knelt down over her. With a ferocious cry she whipped the pipe outward, smacking the masked killer straight across the face. When he came crashing down, Morgan watched him groan for a few seconds before slinking inch by inch to her fallen friend. Blood coated her teeth, and she pointed for the door.

“The hatch…” Meg groaned. “Find the hatch…!”

The Ghostface was still hunched on the floor in the center of the room, the rattling generator making the room unbearably loud as he struggled to rise up to his knees. “… I won’t let this happen again,” Morgan muttered, hesitantly making her way for the door. He was stunned. There was more than enough time to find the hatch. Hopefully it would be far off. Morgan shunned the feelings of self-reproach. If anyone was to live, it would be her, and she had to make that count. It had been so long since a whole team was wiped out. That couldn’t happen now. She didn’t want to let it.

 _I won’t let him get me, I won’t let the Entity win,_ she thought through gritting teach, loose limbs like gelatin managing to carry her across the tight corridor in a sloppy effort of escape. Blood trailed behind her, but she tried to cover her tracks. Blood flung down every fork in her path in the hopes of confusing him. Meg’s sacrifice—everyone’s—it wouldn’t be in vain. Not when it was Morgan. _He’s not killing me! Not today!_

The room echoed with her receding footsteps. Salty, slimy blood flooded Meg’s mouth as she coughed painfully, her own face peppered with little droplets of sweat and dirt. The body of the killer came to a slow stand. From his head his mask fell, a trail of blood dripping from a cut that ran from his eyebrow up to the side of his widow’s peak hairline. Brown hair shined with sweat. They locked eyes, and the killer’s face made all of her movements halt. Meg stared with wide, horrified eyes.

“… y-you… you’re…” she shook her head in disbelief, but a fit of coughing cut her short. He was getting closer with unbearably loud, slow steps. Wincing, she gripped the gaping wound on her chest, using her tired limbs to attempt to drag herself away. The Ghostface’s shadow loomed over her helpless state. From above, his lifeless gaze upon her horrified face caused her to completely freeze over. _It’s him,_ she thought, _It’s really him._ He looked so disturbingly human with an expression so far different from his photo. With a tilt of his head he watched her with dull, distant eyes and spoke like he had no soul residing in his tall, dark-bounded body.

“What’s the matter, cheerleader? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The stench of blood and rubber filled her sense. A boot was rose over her head, her body running with a cold chill for what was to come. As she closed her eyes, silently hoping for Morgan to escape without having to witness what she just did, the last thing she would recall once back to the campfire was the sound of breaking bones and the harrowing sensation of being crushed. Once the brutal deed was finished, he took a step back and admired his messy handiwork. The distant whispers residing in his brain told him many things at once, yet he someone was able to comprehend all of it. Greatly did he want to make a bitter remark, but he learned after last time. Turning on his heel, he swept up his mask and slipped it back on. As the spoke, the voice box crackled, damaged from the attack and phasing in and out with every word. His blood boiled inside of his body, his heart racing fast—the sort of fast only his very favorite could do it him. He’d saved the best for last.

_“I’m **coming** for you **Morgan**.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's gonna happen real soon guys. The big reveal.
> 
> I forgot how clumsy the killers in the Scream movies are, so I added a bit of that. I figured it made sense since he's doing things a little differently. I hope you guys know who Janis Joplin is. She's well before my time but my pops raised me in 60's-70's music. Hence Morgan loves it as well, lol.
> 
> Also, I'd made a character profile for Morgan as if she were in the game as well, perks and all, and was going to post it a week ago to keep you guys feeling involved while I was on my short hiatus, but I didn't want to disrupt the ODD/EVEN chapter orders we have going on in here. May post it in the future if any of you guys are interested. Let me know in the comments below!
> 
> QUESTION OF THE CHAPTER: DBD related, which DBD original killer would you want to see with their own movie the most? Honestly hard for me to say, but I'm tied between the Deathslinger (ugh I love western films) and Danny, only because Danny's I see being in his perspective since he has no survivor, and a Scream movie in American Psycho fashion sounds pretty entertaining tbh.


	16. A Killer's Reasoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crazy people don't need a reason. Morgan should have known that, but even hearing it makes it hard to believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hard to write )':

There were so many forms. Not too many for her to count, but it felt as if he were buying a house. Fingers bound with gauze struggled to hold onto the pen—she never realized Jed was left-handed—but he somehow managed to write his name in a quick, reporter-like speed of a scribble on the blank line. When he finished that, Morgan took it from the top of the pile, and he continued onto the second.

It never occurred to her that his fingers were injured too. Not cut, but rather sprained from catching himself as he fell. Thick purple bruises littered the small joints. He looked as if he had something growing beneath his skin, like maybe some sort of dysplasia. He cleared his throat, his eyes casting down tiredly upon the papers. Exhausted—he looked exhausted. Probably he didn’t sleep well, even though he’d been out for a while. Three days later he was out. Luckily the attack only sliced his intestinal walls by a hairline.

“Is it over yet?” he droned in a voice that sounded too lull to be normal, only to be gifted with yet another small pile. He groaned, obviously tired of being cooped up in a hospital, and continued with slowly scribbling out his messy, awkward signature. Contemplating how tired his hand must have been, Morgan couldn’t help but find the fact that he was left-handed rather cute. But then she bit her tongue and craned her neck away, scoffing in the process. Honestly, what was wrong with her? A gentle voice pulled her from her silent bickering. The nurse instructed her that the medication would make him act a bit odd but should wear off in a handful of hours. The bottles were handed to Morgan, which she slipped into her purse. Jed eyed it for a while, commenting earlier on how she never saw her with a handbag before, and that it suited her.

She tried hard not to smile from that.

With her usual deadpanned look she made some room in her bag for the rather large pill bottles: one for antibiotics, and the other an opioid for pain. “Hope you’re good at swallowing,” Morgan said, her voice a little cracked. She was well used from the weariness as well. Perhaps the worry had drained her of her energy too? With her hands wrapped around the wheelchair, she placed her purse on Jed’s lap and guided him out the front gates of the hospital. Coldness was replaced with the heat of a muggy summer noon sun. Jed noticeably winced before finicking with her belongings, to which she doesn’t really notice.

“So,” he began, finding something of interest. “Where to next?”

“Your house,” she said dryly, reaching into the back pocket of her jeans and retrieving her car keys. It was still quite a walk away, but she’d grown paranoid as of lately.

Understandably so.

Jed mused out a soft _ohhh,_ the sounds of a wrapper being undone and crumpled up. Morgan swore she smelt mint. Leaning his head far back, he looked up at Morgan with his puffy red eyes and sly, lazy smile, a stick of unwrapped gum pinched between his pearly white teeth expectantly. “Wan sum?” his words were muffled by his antics. Morgan blinked, her surprise transitioning into great annoyance.

“Were you rummaging through my purse?”

“Bah yew gave et tu me,” he mused.

Nose pinched in annoyance, she reached down to snatch the stick of gum from his teeth, but he jerked his head away just in time. Really, how can he still move so much? Wasn’t he pumped up with drugs to cover up the pain?

“Nuh uh, whid ur mouf.”

“What?” she grunted incredulously at him, to which he smirked a little teasingly. _The drugs,_ she told herself. _It’s got to be the drugs._ An exasperated, very annoyed sigh escaped her stretched lips. Morgan bent over, and a glisten of excitement can be seen in Jed’s pale eyes. Just when he was about to lean in to literally _steal_ himself a kiss, her finger pressed along the stick of gum and forced it into his mouth in one foul swoop. Chewing harshly he groaned like a spoiled child.

Yet another attribute she found cute.

“Shut up, you shouldn’t be chewing on gum anyway. The nurse said you might pass out at any point. Do you really want to be the one survivor that died choking on a piece of gum?” her insult didn’t do much in putting him in his place as it did lift up his mood. With a loopy smile he lolled his head to the side to lean it against her arm, his cheek jagged from all the stubble he’d been unable to shave in the last few days.

“You’re so cute when you’re angry,” he hummed. “Let’s get married. Yer perfect how you look as is.” He paused, “… then there’s the honeymoon. I… don’t have anything saved up. Crap.” Morgan rolled her eyes. Positioning Jed by the passenger side, Morgan opened the door and dipped over to clean up her messy side of the car. Paper word, her photography bag, food wrappers and the likes were left on the ground. She was never this much of a pig, but during the hours she wasn’t in the room with him, she would sit in her car in the parking lot. Waiting, unable to sleep, with her hand wrapped tightly around her gun.

Guns weren’t even allowed in hospitals, but she could care less. She felt she had a valid enough reason to break the law, anyway. The wheelchair creaked as Jed shifted upon it slightly, his hands gripping onto the sides so he could adjust his position. “What about a sleepover?” he slurred, his eyes catching the sight of two suspicious looking men. He squinted like the sun was in his eyes.

“How come I didn’t see the bodyguards whenever you were in my room?” he asked, eyeing the men in suits positioning themselves in their vehicle only several spaces away.

“They were sitting in the waiting room,” she explained, struggle lacing her voice as she attempted to reach for a particular discarded napkin.

A long, awkward silence followed. “The Ghostface… did he…”

Morgan let out an exhausted sigh. “Jed, you asked me that two hours ago. No, he hasn’t showed up again.”

“Okay…” and then he went silent again. Suddenly, Morgan felt a little bad for being short. He was only worried—more concerned for her life instead of his own, too. Taking a moment to breath, she tried to collect her thoughts and push back the exhaustion that had been making her a bit shorter than she’d hoped for. As she closed her eyes and literally attempted to clear her mind, she heard Jed clear his throat suddenly.

“You know, those pants make you look really sexy. Like, _me_ caliber _sexy_.”

Standing, she looked down at him with eyes a strange concoction between shock and annoyance. Jed simply sat there, his legs splayed open and head hanging loosely back to look up at her with heavy lidded eyes. A cheesy smile was on his face, not quite perverted but just a nice little smile. She rolled her eyes, ignoring the burning on her cheeks before dusting her hands.

“For a sick guy you still talk like a real charmer, huh?” Morgan helped him into her car. As he buckled in, he looked up at her with a sudden wave of concern.

“Wait, do I not look sexy right now?”

“…” She slammed the door, the car rocking with such a force it made him groan with new blossoming pain. Great, now she felt guilty. Morgan rounded the back of the car, entered the driver’s side, and began the short journey toward his house. The high sun was blinding, and as she slipped on her glasses, Jed placed her purse on the ground near his feet. His swollen fingers reached for the radio. The node was already adjusted to a station. The very same she always had on.

“103.1, the _buzzard._ Sounds kind of scary don’t it?”

“Depends on if you think buzzards are scary or helpful,” she said, her eyes fully on the road and nowhere else. Rock thrummed in the speakers, which he kept at a low volume. His head was still spinning, and he didn’t think he could handle a yelling from Morgan right now. Loud music, yes. Morgan, no. The man cocked his eyebrow in thought.

“I think they look like skinny, evil turkeys,” Jed explained, his head looking out the window. With it rolled down, he felt the hot humid air turn remotely cooler as it swept across his pale face. Hair blew back, his brown locks standing in place and looking like bed hair. With a deep breath he turned around, his eyes reflecting the hot bright sunshine bouncing from the boiling pavement. They were a silvery blue dulled down with some foggy grey shade that made him look like he was somewhere else. When he smiled, she felt her stomach tickle. Suddenly, his eyes widened.

Morgan was mouthing the lyrics to the song on the radio. As his ears perched up, he recognized the classic and instantly grinned to the soft, barely audible sound of her voice. Noticing his gawking, her lips sealed, and she threw him a suspicious glare. “… what? What are you staring at?”

“You’re singing.”

“No I’m not.”

Jed chuckled, “You don’t have to be ashamed around me. C’mon, sing louder I wanna hear how pretty you sound.”

“No, no, no,” Morgan smiled, discomfort raging in her veins. “I’m not good at that sort of stuff.”

“I bet I’d like your voice more than Janis Joplin’s.”

With an arch of her brow she glanced over to him, “You know Joplin?”

“You kidding me?” his voice grew louder with excitement. The sparkle in his eyes was telling her that know was an understatement. “She’s the First Lady of Rock ‘n Roll, Morgan. Who the hell doesn’t know her? See, I knew we had a lot alike.”

To think that little detail made them alike was a silly notion, but Jed was an optimist. On the other hand, Morgan was far too _realistic_ for her own good. Even when she drove, she mirrored a robot that did everything in perfect sequential order. Still, she couldn’t understand why this man took such heavy interest in her. For starters, she never felt she was that pretty. And if outsides weren’t enough, her inside was desperately, terribly lacking in the _approachable_ department. So many prettier, younger women out there that Jed could get his hands on. Girls with a boldness to match his that oozed with sex appeal. Not Morgan, who wore jeans and a tank top with flipflops. Morgan, who listened to bar rock and played solitaire by herself when she was lonely. Morgan, who’s eye for art never went noticed because she wasn’t a fan of talking with anyone she didn’t _have_ to talk to. Then there was Jed…

“I’m hungry,” he groaned, rubbing his belly and sinking back into the passenger seat with a childish pout spreading over his face. Morgan rose a brow.

Honestly, he was something else.

Aside from how random and irritable he could be, he was handsome, sociable, knew how to talk to anybody. No matter what he did it always seemed planned, even when he winged it. His shoes weren’t perfectly polished, and on the days he rushed to work from sleeping in she could tell, because his tie was always crooked when she met him for lunch. Lunch that he somehow managed to plan regardless of how busy his schedule was. She’d always fix it for him. Whenever she did, no matter how brief the contact, he’d look at her with those eyes. As if there was some passionate fire burning inside of him because she was there.

Morgan’s eyes caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror and she instantly frowned. Seriously, there was nothing special about her.

“Man, I love this song,” he was tapping to the tune, his arm slung out the window and catching the warmth of the blazing sunlight. They came to a red light when Morgan began to speak up once again.

“It’s overplayed,” she said, fighting back a yawn that desperately wanted to come out. Damn was she tired. Jed’s attention snapped back to her, his eyes wide with disbelief. He looked like an arrow had struck his heart.

“Because it’s her best one!”

“You really think so, huh?” Morgan rolled her head to look over to him, and there was a small smirk on her lips. Jed paused, staring at her for a second before a smile of his own creeped its way over his lips. Something about that made her worried.

“Oh, I know so. Bet I can change your whole perspective on this here song.”

“Oh yeah?” she jested, her fingers bouncing at her flat locks. With her hair all matted she greatly wished she was in the shower right about now. “Not sure how you plan on doing something like that, but good luck.”

There, the mistake. She just knew she said something she’d regret; she just wasn’t sure how that could be yet. Sweat rolled down her back, unable to be soaked up by the leather lining her seats. Feeling the reach of a yawn wanting to stretch its way into her mouth, she stretched her arms to fight it off. She wasn’t expecting the radio to be turned off so suddenly. Curious eyes looked over to Jed, who was staring at her with an intensity so great she thought he was possibly having an aneurism. Morgan contemplated turning around and bringing him back into the hospital, her eyes huge with bits of panic that hadn’t been able to fully surface before he opened his mouth. Jed started to sing, and Morgan could only stare slack-mouthed at him.

_“Didn’t I make you feel like you were the only woman… yeah! Didn’t I give you nearly everything that a man possibly can?”_

“Oh, shit,” Morgan groaned, realizing what was happening. Fingers kneaded into her aching temple, the heat of a summer day burning her skull. Inside her brain must’ve been frying like an egg. The car’s air conditioning just couldn’t work fast enough. A part of her itched to slam on the gas, but she wasn’t the first on the red light, so she was thoroughly stuck in her spot. Quite literally. If she were to ditch her car, would he be able to drive it? Probably not. She was aiming to ignore him, escape the situation by thinking about something depressing, until he intercepted her. The man leaned forward despite the stitching, his grin big and bright. It’s almost as if he didn’t have bandages binding his arm and torso. That singing of his grew louder.

 _“Honey, you know I did! And each time I tell myself that I, well I think I’ve had enough, but I’m gonna show you baby, that a man can be tough,”_ the way he moved his head he sung, like he was genuinely into the lyrics. Embarrassed, she stared at the passerby that casted their glances over from the sidewalks, her cheeks burning bright as he grew louder, rowdier. Silently she prayed that the light would turn green faster. It didn’t. She’d roll up her windows if it weren’t so hot.

“I-It’s the drugs,” she called out croakily to a couple of giggling women. “The pain pills,” she clarified.

Clapping his hands to some invisible rhythm, Jed bounced his shoulders and bobbed his head like a man too eager to break loose on the dance floor. His voice was thrill and loud, hitting notes no man should. The fact that she knew the song—and that he was doing a pretty good job—made Morgan’s head sink into her shoulders. If she were a turtle then maybe no one would see her face, would remember her or her car. But the sunglasses didn’t give her that reassuring protection that she was hoping for. Butterflies fluttered deep in her belly when Jed reached a new volume so loud that practically _everybody_ was watching him bounce with the music only he and _she_ could hear playing in their heads. Some song from the late 60’s that some of the young folks never heard of before, not that they were old.

_“I want you to **come** on, **come** on, **come** on, **come** on and **TAKE IT!** Take another little piece of my heart now, baby!”_

_Shut the hell up,_ she mouthed as he sung louder, the distant clapping of the public along with his rampant singing making Morgan’s eyes widen. Great, now he was being supported.

 _“Oh, oh **break** it! Break another little bit of my heart now, darling, yeah, yeah, yeah! Have another little piece of my heart, now baby!” _With a burly finger he pointed to her suddenly, his eyes locking with hers so intently she just couldn’t turn away.

 _“I **know** I’ve got it, if it makes me **feel** **good!**_ ”

The loud blaring of a horn had her jumping in her seat. Not noticing the light had turned green, Moran pressed a little harder on the gas than she intended. Jed yelped, his head bumping the headrest, an otherwise harmless little act had he been prepared. She looked to him a bit concerned when he stirred in his seat. Then he looked to her, reaching over with a lazy hand and poking at her cheek. The man giggled slightly. She tried reminding herself that it was the drugs. Morgan scoffed, swiping his hand away.

“Stop it,” Morgan gingerly remarked when he plopped his arms upon his lap and shook his head like a wet dog. Again, that loopy smile was on his face. As her cheeks bubbled with agitation, he took a whiff of the fresh air and hummed contently to himself.

“You’re being too tense.”

“And you’re being too lax. There’s a fucking killer chasing me Jed and he’s playing with you to get to me,” she exclaimed, earning his attention which had grown more serious for the time being. Attempting to brush back her unruly hair, she sighed deeply as she leaned her back plush against her chair. She winced at the ache filling up her skull like boiling water.

“But I’m alive… aren’t I?”

She sighed, “When I bring you home there’s going to be police there to protect you. It would be better if you keep your distance from me for the time being.”

A hand far bigger than hers shielded her fingers, his own intertwining with hers in a way so gentle that she couldn’t shake him off, no matter how much she convinced herself she wanted to. Jed held her hand silently, the look on his face far from his usual. Sulking wasn’t the right word for it, but it was the first that came to her mind. As his thumb ran gentle circles on the flesh of her palm, he spoke slowly so she could digest his words.

“That won’t stop him from trying to get to you, Morgan.”

She knew. Dammit, she knew so much. Yet what happened she blamed herself for, and whatever else may occur she still would. Suppose Jed was attacked again—or worse, killed—even after them following her futile little plan of protecting him. What would she feel then? Not better.

Guilt?

Remorse?

Regret?

The thought of losing something before it even started frustrated her beyond words. To no end. She felt his hands, oddly calloused, and was surprised to find his grip so firm. So strong she knew he wouldn’t let go of her so easily.

Weird, how safe his hold made her feel.

Finding those thoughts foolish, she swiped them away quickly. His house was getting closer. Now wasn’t the time to get sentimental. “I’m worried about you, not me.”

“You’re making me feel like I’m the woman here,” Jed grumbled, jokingly at that. Still, despite the serious switch in roles, Jed continued to hold her hand and weave little intricate shapes upon her smooth skin. The contrast between them was immeasurable, even down to the sizes and textures of their hands. She just couldn’t fathom what he saw in her.

Seeing his plain little house closing in drew an ache in her chest. Approaching it, she felt like she was pushing a convict to the electric chair. As she unlocked Jed’s door with his keys, they entered the home and were met with a blood-stained carpet and perfect silence. The officers outside insisted that the home was secure from the attic to the tight little corridors of the broom closet. Jed let out a shaken breath once on his two feet, his large palm fastened over the stitching that lined his flat abdomen. With the wheelchair folded and resting upon the wall, Morgan placed the keys on the entrance table and turned to make her leave. Before she could even talk, however, she felt his fingers latch tightly around her thin wrist. Morgan froze, surprised by the power behind his hold. He really wasn’t letting her go that easy.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going home, Jed.”

Licking his teeth, his tongue made a squeaking sound. His brows knitted together, her words looking like they hurt him a ton. “Stay for a bit… I’m worried about you Morgan. I… don’t like the thought of being away from you for a long time while you’re a literal target, you know?” he didn’t even have to explain it, but he still did. Maybe to reassure something to her. Maybe to get it through her thick skull. Lips pinched tight she slowly but hesitantly released the doorknob. As Jed reached over, he did it to lock the deadbolt, securing the front door. Next, he fumbled to arm the alarm. He’d told the code to Morgan before: 2638.

“Sorry about your door,” she mumbled, noticing how it wasn’t really on as straight as before. A crack from her boot disrupted the once pristine surface. Jed only chuckled with a wide grin.

“I think I value my life more than my front door,” he reassured her, and damn was his smile handsome. It made her pissed off for some reason.

_You know why, because it makes your stomach all fluttery inside._

Yeah, yeah, that was it. He led her to the living room, to which she followed like some helpless puppy. When he flopped down onto his couch, he let out a noise filled with pain and regret. Then, he held open his good arm in waiting. It appeared he wanted her to join him. Morgan shook her head, but he proved to be difficult to sway.

“C’mere.”

“… Jed, I’m… I’m _not_ …” and she trailed off. Not what? Not comfortable? Not ready? Not willing? She knew what would happen if she laid there with him, with his arms wrapping around her and his heart thrumming in her ear. With his warmth swallowing her whole in a position and comfort she’d never really felt before ever since she was a grade schooler cuddling with her parents. Yet he waggled his fingers, his eyes boring into her in a way she couldn’t quite describe. But his smile was small and hopeful, not in any ways forcing her but definitely wishing it would happen. Because how long had he been craving to get close with her?

How long had he been wanting to hold her like this?

Damn, she didn’t even fucking know. Outside there were four cops—two for him, two for her—and the alarm was set with every door and window locked tight. Jed was alive, and so was she. But for how much longer? Feeling the odds and realizing just how fleeting life really was, Morgan recognized this rare, opportune moment as something truly, seriously didn’t want to miss. To let go for something as stupid as her stubborn pride. With every movement apprehensive, Morgan lowered herself onto the couch as gentle as a leaf landing on the ground from a soft breeze. She felt his strong arm coil around her back, reeling her down slowly and gently until she was lying on him. Their bodies were rigid at first, but the moment her ear rested upon his chest she could hear his breathing and the echoed, low tone of his gentle chuckle like a music she’d never known existed. That heart of his was still beating. That made her feel saner, more to earth. Instantly she conformed into him, her eyes flowing with tears that she didn’t knew she had. She told herself she didn’t need this sort of comfort. That it was for pussies. It rattled in her brain like an empty chant that no longer possessed the same meaning it did before. At this point after everything, she just couldn’t control it anymore. Morgan’s hands pressed against her face, and for the first time, she cried into him. Jed held her close, kept her warm, even though he probably still felt lightheaded. Even though his stitches tugged at his flesh.

“Don’t keep yourself away from me,” he whispered. Morgan nodded frantically as her head curled into the crook of his neck.

“I won’t,” she was muffled, the vibrations of his pleased humming rumbling through his body and into hers. She paused for a moment, “… what if something bad happens?” she questioned, tortured by the endless brutal possibilities playing in loop within her overly vivid imagination.

“I don’t care, I’m more ready for it. Don’t worry about me,” he replied.

Morgan swallowed the lump in her throat, the tears still flowing, and she hated how she was crying. The more Morgan thought about the situation—actually, seriously thought about what was happening to her—she felt the anger burning in her muscles. Feeling hot, she clenched her fists, seething with every breath. “I… I fucking hate this!” she hissed and then choked on her whimpers. “I hate **_him_**!”

Jed said nothing, only rubbed her quaking arms in the hopes of quelling her anger. She breathed slow and steadily like a vexed dragon in wait. “I want to kill him… I want to kill him Jed… I want to kill him so **fucking** bad for hurting you.”

“I know…” Jed whispered, his embrace on her tightening slightly when she shrunk into herself in the attempts to quell the hatred burning inside. Once it finally began to pass—leaving a kindle like hot burning coals in her heart—she laid limp upon him and stared at the many photos lining the wall before them. Her breath was staggered.

“This is all my fault.”

“How?” he responded, voice soft given she was so close to him. “It’s not like you paid some killer to harass you. Did you?”

A fist pounded lightly at his chest, his laughing dying with a defeated noise. Morgan pulled her hand away and rested it gently over where the wound laid. The area was hotter than normal. She closed her eyes, pushing against the guilt that was eagerly trying to eat away at her psyche.

“If I hadn’t of gotten close to you this would have never happened to you. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Jed rose a brow, “What for? For being a beautiful, talented woman that saved my skin more times than I can count?”

She willingly ignored the compliment in his sentence. “For dragging you into my nightmare.”

Another chuckle from him, “I’m a reporter. I drag myself into stuff. Besides, I like being in your mess… huh, that sounds kind of dirty. Don’t… don’t take it like that.”

Sniffling, she locked fingers with him and stared at the bandages lining them. “… you know I’ve never interested anybody before. In all my life people always kept arms distance from me. My sister always said I was too… guarded. Caustic. Do you know Shakespeare? She used to call me a shrewd, said only one a million guys could tame me.”

Jed’s face scrunched up, “She sounds mean.”

“It’s not mean if she’s right. She just wanted to help. Never went too far with the pestering. You called me shrewd the first day you talked to me, just a few months ago. I’d say you would have agreed with her then.”

“I…” he trailed off, and though she couldn’t see him she could imagine the cornered look on his face. Not that she could blame him. She was doing it yet again. Being a bitch. As per usual.

“My point is this happening to me. It shouldn’t be, but it is… and for once I don’t know what to do about any of it.” Earning the interest of two people. Jed and… a killer. Someone so batshit crazy that no one could give a reasonable excuse for such mindlessness. And yet there she was, the one person in the back of the crowd that should have been lost within the sea of faces. Never meant to be a main character, a forefront, someone special; and yet there she was. That one in a million.

And she couldn’t even begin to understand why. It’s as if there were no facts needed.

“There’s nothing wrong with being guarded. If anything that’s what attracted me the most,” Jed explained.

Morgan leaned up to look at him, her eyes narrow and displaying a very small bit of judgement. As Jed gulped beneath her almost too demeaning gaze, she lightened up in an instant and sighed. Her expression was soft. “You act like I’m worth the trouble.”

“If there was trouble, you’d be worth every bit of it. And then some. None of this is your fault. Things happen, so don’t hold yourself accountable for every little thing. Okay?” he admitted earnestly. Morgan studied his face, looking throughout the surface to see any hints of a lie. Had he been bullshitting? Even if he were, what would he be gaining from it? Letting out a shaky breath, Morgan bit her lip before adjusting herself. The lopsided look on his face made her want to punch him, but the feeling diminished rather quickly. Jed’s breath hitched as she pressed her lips against his, the kiss having a kindling intensity that wasn’t quite apprehensive as it was restrained. Once his shock dispersed, Jed’s fingers weaved into her hair, knotting into the strands and pulling her in deeper like he’d been craving it. They held still for a moment, enjoying the feeling. Warm, connected, her first taste of intimacy. As her heart hammered in her chest, she felt content just as much as she did overwhelmed.

Too quickly did she pull away, their breaths interlacing. She felt the tickle of his stubble still tingling across her skin, the hot breath from his lungs panting out across her neck and chest. It bewildered Morgan to now understand what all the fuss of kissing was about. For some reason, it made the pit of her stomach feel nice and warm. Made her skin crawl and fed into her need to mold into him like a cat. Jed’s fingers kneaded into her scalp, the eagerness in his eyes evident, but he also looked tired. A finger pressed against his lips as he arched forward to kiss her again, his eyes that were once in a cloud nine-like haze blinking with confusion. As he came to, it was to her small smile that he’d never expected to see.

“After this is all done and over with…” she explained, her hand gracing the side of his face and leaving a trail of goosebumps over his skin. “Then I’m all yours.”

Jed was breathing slowly, the focus in his eyes completely captivated by her face. It was that same look. The very same when she’d fix her tie—rare, but like he’d come to terms with something deep inside of what she’d imagine to be that messy filing cabinet he called a brain. He thought about her words before speaking, “Why have a piece of my heart when you can have the whole organ?”

“I intend to,” she rested her case by pushing herself up, walking away before disappearing into his kitchen. Jed had difficulty watching after her.

“Where’ya going?”

“I thought you were hungry,” she said dryly, flicking on the lights to his kitchen. Jed was silent for a few seconds. And then a whistle, long and dragged out, rang across the living room.

“Damn… you ever heard of the song Maneater?” he asked.

“Are you suggesting I’m a whore?”

“No,” he urged. “Just that you’re well worth the wait. Totally can’t wait for you to be my wife. All cute with the housedress, and the art corner, and the strawberry ice cream, and-”

It’s like the words were never-ending. As he rambled on, Morgan opened the freezer and stuck her head inside. Within the cold containment she was hoping to calm down. _Fuck,_ she’d never felt so ashamed of herself. To let her walls fall, and then to do… _that_. She bit her lip, shivering under her skin at how cold the tub of ice cream was as it pressed against her cheek. She noted it was strawberry and thought back to their first date. Honestly, the man outside was viciously thorough. Jed continued to trail on all the qualities about her he admired beyond measure. He couldn’t possibly see it, but she was smiling inside of his freezer.

By late in the evening, Jed was asleep. Morgan left without a noise, careful to doublecheck every window, every door, every inch of the home. Before taking her leave, she’d spotted the very same broom closet that had caught her eye the very first time she’d ever visited. A few seconds were wasted as she stood before it contemplatively, and as she swung the door wide open, she met face to face with nothing but cleaning supplies and the sorts. She shut it afterwards, albeit a little guiltily, and let the officers posted outside the front and back aware of his situation. On the way home, she saw the headlights of a police car tailing her the entire time.

Every lock on every entrance: fence, window, door, it didn’t matter to her. They were clasped shut, locked tight, and she wished she had a security system. Mounting her pistol on her hip just below her waistband, Morgan decided to minimalize any distractive sounds to a minimum for the time being. Outside was the darkness one would only get when so far from the city. She craved sitting in her back porch to stare up at the stars, but she knew better. Now wasn’t the time nor the place. As she clicked on the television, she muted the volume and watched the headlines roll. No deaths, no word from Joseph, no buzzing of her pager. It was painfully, painfully silent.

What was _he_ waiting for?

It only made the hairs in the back of her neck stand. Perhaps he was on the prowl now. Maybe he was waiting outside someone’s house, studying how they went about their night. Looking for any openings. Maybe the victim sprained their ankle at work? Suppose they had asthma and kept the albuterol in the kitchen cupboard. He’d definitely snatch that first. Or it was possible they were watching television, the volume way down but the windows wide open for him to see. She had a gun on her, but that wouldn’t work well if the lights were out…

Morgan’s head snapped around to look outside her window, her eyes wide like an owl’s as her heart thrummed inside her chest. Pulling her curtains shut, she completely cuts herself off from the outside world, and not a moment too soon. _Fuck, you’re paranoid Morgan._ As if that were a problem, however. Survival meant being seamless. Killers worked with mistakes, whether they be the classic trope sort of thing or the little trips in between an otherwise perfect plan. And Morgan had to be **perfect**. Truthfully, she craved for the boring normality of life. She wanted to shower and then dive into her couch to watch reruns more than anything, but not anymore. Not when the sun was gone, and the night shrouded every corner outside. The ideal setting for someone who moved in the darkness as if he were a part of it. Within her room she changed her shirt, the previous stained at the pits and smelling of hospital cleaner. Feeling remotely more comfortable, she wrapped her hands around her alarm clocked and studied it with narrow eyes. Morgan turned it this way and that, finding the batteries were still intact. Cheap model, and nothing more.

The phone rang suddenly. Placing the item down, she avoided the corded phone in the kitchen and retrieved the wireless unit in the foyer. It was the newer model, and she always felt anxious holding it in her hands. Mindful to not drop it, she began to speak, “Hello?”

_“Hey! You never told me you lived in murder town.”_

Instantly wincing at the voice, she knitted her brows together and leaned her back against the small welcoming table. “Hello to you too, Lorri.” Her twin sister, naturally, and with that same spunky sounding voice she’d always had since childhood. On the other end she could hear the clacks of a computer keyboard. It was likely she was looking online at the news, and Morgan instantly worried for her source.

_“Ahh, yeah, Roseville. Same thing. You do know it’s made national news, right? The whole back to back killings, the victim names, the cops stuck in a loop? This shit’s about to get Federal.”_

Morgan’s eyes widened. Had she’d been so behind to not notice? The thought of the FBI coming into play had her feeling nothing but pity for her detective friend. It always was messy when they got involved. Then again, chances where it was only Lorri making assumptions. Brushing back her greasy hair, Morgan peaked outside the decorative window of her front door to see everything terribly, suspiciously normal. Next, she stalked toward the back entrance.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she grumbled at the thought.

_“Mom and dad are worried.”_

“I think I can handle my own just fine,” Morgan grumbled, but her sister’s words only made her shoulders droop lower.

_“Yeah well, they’re still going to call you later once dad’s off work.”_

“Guess he’ll never retire.”

Lorri mused, _“Like father like daughter. And no, I’m not referring to myself. So about that guy you were telling me about…”_

Fingers lodged between the blinds, her eyes scanning the darkness of her large backyard. Usually, she’d see her goats grazing or sleeping in the stalls near the closest fence line. That wouldn’t be the case ever again, she thought. “You go from my safety to my sex life. Typical.”

_“Wait you had sex with him?”_

“No, I didn’t. Don’t take everything I say so literally,” Morgan droned, feeling her cranium already beginning to ache. Geez, she felt old all of the sudden. Lorri groaned, disappointingly, and Morgan was reminded of how weird her sister was.

_“You poor, poor, poor thing. When are you going to let loose?”_

“When the cops bag the killer and I can move on to a new case,” she kept the real juicy details away from family, otherwise she’d never stop receiving distress calls of _are you okay_ and _come back home._ Speaking with them always made her feel young—too young—and as much as she felt trapped in Roseville, she always figured she’d feel _imprisoned_ underneath the same roof as her parents. Those two always wondered why she had to choose such a grim profession. Morgan never even needed to ask for their opinions, either. She figured it was part of the culture, then again, she’d never really stepped foot in South Korea.

“As for your prying, he’s fine. We agreed to let the ship sail when all’s said and done.”

Lorri scoffed, _“You **put** him on **hold**?! You always were so prudent… that’s why you’re smarter than me though. I approve of this decision.”_

“Many thanks, I totally wanted your approval in the first place.” Her words oozed with sarcasm, but her sibling never took it to heart. She knew her well, and she knew Morgan was stressed. With a delightful hum, Lorri continued with her teasing tone.

_“I know, I know. What’s he like? Pretending I’m like a girlfriend, since you don’t have any.”_

That was like asking for an entire essay. Still, Morgan pondered the question, struggling to find a quick, short, simplified answer that would still do the man in mention the justice. Staring at nothing in particularly, she basked beneath the lights in her kitchen and thought of Jed.

“… he’s my one in a million.”

Lorri didn’t sound as teasing as she did earnest, _“You really think so?”_

Her line of black and white photographs caught her attention, every detail engraved in her mind. She recalled Jed observing them with a keen interest. “Yeah,” she said. “I really do.”

_“I’m glad. If you ever need any advice.”_

Morgan suddenly frowned, “No.”

_“Okay, okay! Fine… anyway, I’m going to hop to bed, just checking on you… you sure everything’s okay down there?”_

Ahh, there it was. The seriousness. As Lorri’s voice grew softer, displaying genuine concern, Morgan felt her abrasive nature completely melt away. With an arm crossed over her chest, she sighed into the receiver, “Yes… don’t worry about me. It’s not like I’m in the front lines.”

_“… okay, I can’t help but be a little worried. Not everybody gets to have a twin. Dad’s going to call you later.”_

“Shit,” she hissed, earning a short snort of laughter. The old man always did have way too many questions for her to handle. Sometimes, it felt as if he were the woman in the conversation. He’d always catch Morgan when she was too tired to talk, anyway. Tonight was no exception.

_“Be nice to him, he misses you. Love you lots.”_

“Yeah… love you too.”

Then she hung up. A deep, slow breath crawled into her nose, down to her lungs, and sat there for a long while. Outside, silence continued. The night insects creeped and chirped with the fluttering glow bugs, and it all fell on deaf ears. Morgan listened for the haunting tremor of footsteps, or a blade screeching against glass. When none of that came, she released that held breath and opened her eyes. She needed to relax, there were cops outside to protect her. There were cops outside protecting Jed. She needed to remember that. Sinking slowly into the couch, Morgan watched the quiet news network, waiting for something terrible to show up, all the while the phone was gripped tightly in her hand. Should her dad call, she’d make sure to answer him.

Headlines of accidents, presidential nominees dwindling down to the last two, and every other unimportant think between flashed in a white text that scrolled a little too fast for her tired eyes to keep up with. Morgan suppressed a yawn, watching her ceiling as a clock ticked somewhere in the nearby hall. It was so painfully quiet, she wished she had some sort of company. _No, the silence could save me._ Because she could hear anything. Everything. A lock being picked, or the creak of her floorboards as weight shifted upon it. Thank goodness she had no cats… except a dog would be helpful. A nice, big, scary guard dog that would bark at anything out of the ordinary. Tuning her ears into the distant noise, beyond the ticking of clocks and kicking of the central air conditioning, Morgan heard nothing but the soft ringing of complete silence. She closed her eyes and eased her breathing.

Listening…

**_RRRRRIINNNNGGGGGGGG._ **

Jolting from her comfortable position, Morgan was swept with the groggy feeling of a deep sleep being interrupted. Dazed, she looked down at her cordless phone with confusion. Shit, she’d accidentally fallen asleep. Rubbing her eyes, she adjusted her seating and examined the phone. It had just enough battery left for a decent call length. With a yawn she answered before placing it over her ear.

“Hi daddy.”

The voice was one she didn’t recognize, **_“Oh? No one’s ever called me that before. I like it.”_**

Still plagued with blurry vision, she blinked a few times, her brow arching. Someone she didn’t know was on the other line, though that wasn’t necessarily uncommon. Though, given the situation at hand…

“Who’s this?” she grumbled, her body leaning forward over her knees as she adjusted her hair from her eyes. The voice on the other end chuckled, and it sounded strangely, remotely sinister whenever it spoke.

 ** _“A friend. Who’s this?”_** he echoed, though she doubted it was an actual question. Everything he’d said sounded teasing, despite the exchange being very little. Pushing herself up, Morgan stood on her two feet and felt the prickly sting of numb limbs reawakening. The blood rushed through her legs, down her feet, and it felt as if she were standing on small needles.

“I’m not telling you that,” she said dryly, her patience thinning. “You have the wrong number. Try dialing slower,” she bitterly remarked before hanging up. Perhaps a man trying to call his girlfriend late at night, or maybe a prank caller? Regardless, she placed the phone down on the coffee table and made her way to the kitchen. With a clean glass from the cupboard at hand, she filled it with some whiskey and popped in a couple ice cubes. Morgan took a sip. It tasted like roasting wood yet went down smooth. The nasty taste left in her mouth was now gone, and she felt her nerves release some of their coiled tension. One again, the phone began to ring.

Greatly, she doubted it was her father, the small device resting in her hands as she stared down at it suspiciously. A quick glance at the clock: it was 11:30. There wasn’t any need to answer. If it were her father, he’d call tomorrow since it was late. Her mother would already be fast asleep, as well as Lorri. As the caller was forced into the message box, she heard it speaking to the individual its usual monologue. A loud beep, and afterwards… nothing. Just a short breath, the user unidentifiable, and then they hung up without a word. She’d make a note to delete that later. Morgan wondered if she needed to check on her pager, but there was no way Joseph would bring her back into work after winning the grueling battle to force her to stay home and out of the station. Funny, she figured she’d be safer surrounded by cops, but the truth was if she were there then she’d work herself up with all the evidence piling up of new cases.

The killer would strike soon…

Blue light flashed in her hands, illuminating her pale flesh. Ringing. It was ringing again. Against her better judgement, she picked up, not saying a word into the receiver. There was a peculiar silent match, the caller making no noise that Morgan at first had mistaken that no one was there. But a rustle could be heard, ever faint, like something brushing against the phone on the other end. Though she wasn’t looking at anyone in particular, Morgan began to glare.

“Hello?” she answered finally.

**_“Hanging up on people is rude.”_ **

With her glass of whiskey in hand, she rocked the liquid and listened to the silent chiming of ice hitting the hard surface of the cup. It did nothing to ease her.

“I’m not into prank calls,” she responded bitterly. “Go bother someone else.”

**_“Do you really want me to do that again?”_ **

Morgan froze. Suspicion rose from her stomach, but then something else. Looking around the room, she swallowed thick saliva and tried contemplating her next words carefully. “What does that mean?”

**_“Oh, but you sound so smart. Can’t you take a guess? I doubt you’ll need a hint…”_ **

Gripping her glass tighter, she took an uneven breath and snarled into the receiver, “You’re him… the killer.”

**_“Killer, yes, but to you? Think of me as… a distant admirer.”_ **

So much did she want to chew him out over the phone, to curse him to hell and back and rip him a new one. Slowly she closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath and holding it in. Careful, she had to be careful to not instigate anything. Otherwise, she just might make the biggest mistake of her life. Morgan bit her lip, her hand messily placing the cup down as drew out her pistol and made her way toward the front window. Sliding a blind over she peaked outside, but all she could see was completely darkness beyond her porch light.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, continuing her assessment outside from one window to another.

**_“I have a name you know…”_ **

“What do you want,” she repeated slower, practically demanding an answer that she well knew she wouldn’t receive. Not easily, at least. He chuckled on the other end of the line, the evil sound crawling up her spine and forcing her body into a shivering frenzy. Damn, even his voice scared her so much.

 ** _“I want lots of things, Morgan, but first I want to hear you say my name.”_** Just the sound of him saying her name made her teeth chatter. Why was she so surprised by that? It shouldn’t have been. He knew her work, her relations, where she lived… the bastard probably sifted through her damn mail. **_“Come now, why so surprised? Of course I know you, I’m your secret admirer, aren’t I? You’re Morgan Yoon, 34-years-old, forensic photographer… 5’5”, 120 pounds, Korean descent, the eldest of a set of twins… I even know your favorite color.”_**

Morgan seethed, “How about you tell me your name, that way I can say it?”

That earned her a cackle, a little too gleeful for her liking. The sheer sound frightened her. **_“But you already know it, it’s all over the news! My work has made me famous after all… go on… say it for me. Just once?”_**

With her back pressed against the kitchen counter, she stared at her back door, her gun tightly in her grip and at the ready. Fighting her quivering lip, she spoke under her breath.

“ _Ghostface_ … you’re the _Ghostface_.”

A pleased noise flowed into her ears. It felt so wrong to hear him writhe with joy at such acknowledgement. Humming like he’d steeped into a warm bath, he snickered into the phone. **_“Good girl… you’re making daddy very happy.”_** The rustling noise was back, like fabric rubbing against the phone. **_“Do you like my work?”_**

“You’re… you’re fucking sick.”

 ** _“You’re thinking about that last one, aren’t you? I was… upset… I admit it wasn’t my usual style. I can see why you weren’t a fan of it, but for someone_** else **_to photograph it? It’s like a fucking insult.”_**

Her eyes narrowed, “That’s why? Because I take pictures of your mess?”

**_“Not particularly, though that is why I started looking into you. Got myself hooked… you’re an artist. You can appreciate in a way no one else can.”_ **

Gripping her gun, she continuously peaked from the front to the back entrance. With the phone hooked between her head and shoulder, Morgan began to fiddle with the pager. She frantically started sending Joseph a message through it. Tears threatened to sting her eyes.

“I’ll never appreciate anything you do,” she bitterly remarked, to which he chuckled at her harsh words.

**_“But you have an eye for death. Why else would you be taking pictures of corpses?”_ **

“It’s my job!”

**_“And it’s my fucking life so STOP being distracted by that fucking pager and start paying attention to me! Or do you want that little bitch boyfriend of yours to looked like a gutted pig by the end of the night?!”_ **

She gasped, her fingers frozen in spot as she stared with wide eyes toward the floor. Vision turned blurry once more, this time from her tears that were building up along the rim of her lash line. She bit her lip, hands shaking uncontrollably, her hold on her gun tight but the aim dangerously off. Casting her head low, she bit her tongue, too afraid of saying anything brash against such an unpredictable, dangerous man. Then she felt a wave of panic settling in. How did he know she was on her pager? Was he outside? No, then how could he see what she was doing. Realization hit her like a truck, her entire body drenched in a fearful sweat as she pressed her back firmly against the wall. Somewhere…

…he was somewhere in the _fucking_ house…

As Morgan stared furiously around her in great fear, he sighed, as if letting out all the steam of his impatience. **_“That’s better…”_** Biting her tongue harder, she swore she began to taste iron as she stared down the unlit hall, fear welling up in her body like the floodgates were opened. She sweated, feeling her grip on the gun slippery. **_“And I wouldn’t go out to those cops if I were you. Wait until after we’re done. I’m tired of getting interrupted.”_** Inside, her heart hammered against her ribcage. She struggled to slow down her breathing, to quell her panic, but it seeped through like a kettle on high whistling out hot steam. He must have known, because he seemed to be basking in her panic. Her fear. And yet she bit back at him, refusing to drop down to her knees and just submit in raw fear. Morgan gripped the gun, listening to the silence of the house whenever he spoke, hoping to pinpoint where he was.

**_“Do I have your attention now?”_ **

“… yes,” she grimaced, hands gripping so tight she’d just might snap the frame of her pistol.

 ** _“Good,”_** he took an ominous pause. **_“To finally be talking to you… you have no idea how excited this makes me feel.”_**

Teeth gritted together dangerously. She winced at the eager sound of his voice. “Excited enough to get a heart attack?” she snarled, accidentally letting the insult slip. Thankfully he cackled at that, enjoying her abrasive, challenging nature.

**_“Not quite, but enough to get my blood pumping. I’ve been craving a real, honest chat with you for so long, Morgan baby.”_ **

“Don’t say my name so familiarly,” she interjected him, because it didn’t take a genius to know what he was trying to do. Getting her thinking on the wrong things. What made her special… she had to remember what Joseph said. That crazy people didn’t need a reason. They just did on a whim, because they could. Because a little voice in the back of their heads told them to. They were unstable with an insatiable hunger even they didn’t understand. Sometimes they didn’t even know what they did. This guy was no different.

 ** _“But we_** are ** _familiar! We critique each other’s work! Give it time. You’ll know who I am soon enough, and then there won’t be anymore limitations. We both can go all in, no more hiding behind cops and masks… wouldn’t it make you happy to finally meet me?”_**

Building up enough courage, Morgan began stalking slowly down her hall, opening doors abruptly and flicking on all the lights. “Eat shit and die,” she was losing all ability to restrain herself. He was acting so casual, it pissed her off to no end. The Ghostface made a curious noise.

**_“Something tells me you haven’t been liking my love letters.”_ **

“I hate them,” she admitted, kicking open yet another door to see nothing but an empty spare room. The hallway and all of its rooms were clear. Surrounding herself with the familiarity of her foyer, Morgan noticed the door to her work room ajar, the inside too dark for her eyes to see inside. She took a shaken breath. “I hate them… and I hate everything about you. You killed my animals… you killed people… children… you hurt Jed. You’re **nothing** to me, you’re just some twisted psycho playing sick games like some coward!”

 ** _“Silly Morgy, you_** need **_me, you just don’t know about it yet. I know you… I’m in your head. I think about you all the time… don’t tell me you don’t think about me either? Looking for me… keeping an eye out. On the papers. The news. Outside your windows.”_**

_I’m thinking about you._

_Do you think about me too?_

**_“So… back to my first question. Who are you?”_ **

“… why me?” she quivered, but he made a tisking sound, growing impatient for her answer. Morgan winced, curling her lips back into a sneer as she gave into his requests. “A nobody… I’m nobody special just _Morgan_.”

 ** _“Wrongo,”_** she could practically hear the grin in his voice. **_“You_** are ** _special Morgan. Special to me. I chose you because I wanted to. And why? Because I can. That’s who_** you ** _are, and that’s simple the answer to your why… me… situation,”_** Finding herself only more confused, she narrowed her eyes in disbelief, her head shaking incredulously.

“You’re… you’re so _fucking_ insane. A freak stuck in the movies playing in his damn head,” she spat viciously.

**_“This is more than some movie, or story, or game Morgan. This is real life. Besides, who are you to judge me? You couldn’t even trust your little lover boy. Poor guy sent to jail and being bullied by those police officers. The apple of his eye accusing him as some sadistic secret killer. Tell me… how’s he doing?”_ **

“Shut up,” she bore down her teeth so hard, tears burning her eyes as she slowly crossed the front entrance foyer and began approaching the office cautiously. The floorboards creaked. She paused, her breath completely still.

 ** _“Did you make it up to him? Touch him yet? Kiss him? Did he get to_** feel ** _you? Tell me he didn’t. I’ll make him die a virgin, the little prick.”_**

“He doesn’t deserve this. Leave him alone,” she stopped just in front of the door, waiting to hear the killer speak. Waiting to know… if he was inside… the nozzle of her gun peaking through the tight little space where cold air flowed out. Never in her life did she not feel safe in her own home.

**_“Answer me, Morgan.”_ **

“What…” she choked up, unable to produce words properly, his requests were just that uncomfortable for her to admit. “… what does that matter to you?”

 ** _“Because you’re MINE and I’m not sharing you with anybody in this shithole of an earth so did you fuck him or not?!”_** he spoke so rushed, so loudly. The pitch of his voice rung in her ears. Morgan kicked open her den door, rushing in with her gun and flicking on the light. So many black and white photos were scattered about as she left it, anything a shade of white or grey making her heart stop. As if it were him. Her body spun around, the room spiraling on an uneven axis. Morgan felt vertigo seizing her entire body. Suddenly, she wanted to vomit. On the other end, the Ghostface laughed.

**_“Still looking for me, huh? News flash, sweetie, I’m not in your house. As much as I’d love to be.”_ **

“I’m not yours,” Morgan nearly screamed out, her gun quaking as she tried to knock some literal sense into her skull. She desperately needed to calm down, but she couldn’t. “I’m not yours! You’re just hiding because you know I’ll fucking kill you!”

Silence. A stern, intimidating silence. So much that she heard the ringing, burrowing its way into the back of her mind alongside the fear and worry. And regret. So much regret filled up her mouth, expanding until not even a wisp or air could slip into her trachea. He was mad, she was sure of it. So mad he’d do something she’d beg him not to. Sniffling, Morgan waited, listening, wondering why the killer had grown so quiet.

**_“… Jed Olsen… right?”_ **

Frowning, she clenched her jaw so tight she probably cracked a filling. Teary eyed, Morgan glanced down at the hard surface of the ground and shook her head in denial. “N-No.”

**_“I know him. He’s the little paper boy that’s been writing about me. You know, maybe I have been a little rough on him. After all, he’s given me quite a popularity boost with all those articles. The guy’s pretty helpful to a killer… what do you think?”_ **

Morgan couldn’t speak, the fear of her words eliciting some bad response out of him far too great for her to handle. It felt as if the solution was a million miles away. She’d reach out and touch it if she could, but the space surrounding her was thick like molasses. Every breath filled her lungs with dread. The way he was talking about Jed made it feel as if gravity had grown stronger. The killer made a pondering hum, the clack of a knife on the line tickling her earlobes. She cringed.

**_“How’s about I pay him a little visit tonight? Tell him how much I appreciate the help. And if I encourage him some more, maybe he’ll learn his place. You’re mine after all, one of you has to get it through their thick skull.”_ **

“You damn coward!” she cried out, her hair clinging onto her sweaty skin as she shook her head frantically. “If you hurt him again, I swear I’ll make you pay! You're going to be the next victim in the fucking headlines you sick motherfucker!” The killer didn’t say anything, but she knew he was still there. She could hear his breathing. But her voice was far from begging like she should have been. It was a threat. Even now, Morgan was still fighting against the Ghostface. He took a deep, slow breath. A simmering heat could be felt from the sound. It burned her face and made her clench her gun tighter, like she knew something bad was about to happen. A pathetic sound wheezed from her. When he finally started speaking, there was a darkness in his tone that made her skin ice over. She knew it then how mad he was. And there was no changing it.

**_“Do you know what I like most about you… Morgan?”_ **

Her mouth grew dry.

**_“… your tenacity.”_ **

Morgan panicked, “W-Wait… I’ll meet you somewhere, no cops, I promise just please leave him alone!”

The call ended. “No!” the phone fell to the ground, breaking into perhaps a thousand pieces. Shakily, Morgan rushed down the foyer, out her front door, and along the dirt path of her driveway, her voice a shrill scream in the air as she collided against the police car where two very tired officers were startled by her sudden approach. Hands slammed frantically against the hood, her skin sheen with sweat, her bare feet aching from all the gravel she’d trampled along. _He’s after Jed,_ she kept repeating. _He called me, the Ghostface! He called me! He’s going to attack Jed!_ Morgan had been taken to the station just after. Some time later, as she sat in Joseph’s office with a cup of coffee in her shaky hands, Joseph entered the room with deep grooves casting down his usually young-looking face.

“He’s fine,” he stated, a grumble to his voice signifying how sleep deprived he was.

“But **he** said-”

“He’s trying to scare you Morgan. Nobody can get through the security. Jed has four guards. He was asleep when they entered his home. Confused as hell and drugged up, but fine. The number that called you was unregistered. I.T. thinks it was disposable, one of those online ones.” With a big hand he rubbed his growing beard. “There’s been another victim. I need to go check the scene,” he explained, but as Morgan straightened up, he gave her a reprimanding stare. “You’re staying here, safe, away from danger. Do you understand?”

She sunk back into her chair. That last question sounded distant. The ringing in her mind never ceased. As if she were underwater, except she wasn’t weightless. Landslide rubble buried her alive a thousand feet under. Even if she wanted to run, she couldn’t. Not now. Beneath her, she looked at her right hand to see the indentations rippling into the flesh of her palm. She’d been gripping her gun so hard before the cops could coax her into finally letting go. Morgan closed her eyes, the taste of bitter coffee leaving a foul flavor along her tongue. A slow nod was all that she gave him. It was a lie though. “He called me,” her whisper was so quiet that it strained Joseph to hear her. Comfortingly he patted her shoulder, but she couldn’t even feel it. Exhaustion was no longer a tinge. Every bit of her begged for her to lie down and rest. Yet she couldn’t keep her eyes closed longer than a second. A dark figured passed by the window. She swore she saw that black hood and long, white mask. Jerking up, she saw it was only an officer opening the door. Not a crazy killer. Not someone who itched to spill her blood across the pavements. Just Officer Douglas with a clipboard in hand and a worried expression hanging over his wrinkly face. They exchanged few words, something about Tod already on his way there, but everything else fell into deaf ears. Morgan’s hands shook, the liquid within the cup moving as if an earthquake was ripping the ground beneath her. Joseph said something. Something about needing to ask her questions later. Earning no response, he left her to her own devices in the safety of his office, photographs and charts splayed about his work desk. One of which was that haunting photograph. A whimper died in her throat, the Styrofoam cup almost crumpling in her tightening grip.

 ** _His_** words were all she could think about.

Again, and again, and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many of y'all are still shipping Morgan and Jed after this? :'D
> 
> I have face examples of how I roughly imagine how Morgan and Jed to look. They are of course models, so they don't always looks so photo perfect hahah.
> 
> Morgan: https://assets.vogue.com/photos/5aba690444a8fa3bb50d9fcb/master/w_1600%2Cc_limit/02-korean-models-skin-care.jpg  
> Notes: Fair skinned, petite, more than likely 100% Korean descent but raised fully in the United States; she is full bodied USA nationality and completely Asian in ethnicity. Perhaps her hair would be a little longer at most. Always wearing plain colors, such as whites, greys, and blacks. She is not very expressive with her clothing, but she isn't a snob either.
> 
> Jed/Danny: http://www.stylesleera.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/Medium-Hairstyle-For-Men-2018.jpg  
> Notes: I see the facial hair a thinner 5-o-clock shadow, and of course the hairstyle is too long and stylized for him. I'd make it shorter and more even, but he'd have a nice trim that he styles back with some light gel. I would imagine a Captain America cut from the movies with Chris Pratt. Jed is a brunette (not dirty blonde). His eyes are a pale shade of blue, almost grey. I see him always smiling.
> 
> QOTC: Do you guys watch any DBD Youtubers or Streamers? I used to watch HybridPanda before he announced his long hiatus (I understand why), but currently I'm into Monto and thinking about N00b3.


	17. As Everything Collapsed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan experiences true betrayal, but she cannot stray from the task at hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is fairing through this Quarantine.

Faintly could she recall the sounds of early summer.

Rays of light against the endless fields of grain gleaming like melted gold. A bristle of the ends against her skin left a ticklish trail. She sat in the bunch upon a tractor wheel, smelling in the grassland breeze, expanding her lungs so much to take in the sweet scent of ripened crops and distant creaks. Lips popped at the sensation, her tongue tingling from sucking it too hard.

“You sure you wanna move?” Lorri asked her, nested upon the roof of the old farm machine that hadn’t ran for years. Morgan glanced up, seeing her sister still playing with her graduation cap, the tassel spinning around the top of the strangely shaped hat with a look of relaxation displayed on her face. In the expanse of their neighbor’s farmland, the grains shifted like waves beneath the strong gust of wind, warm and strong as it blew back their hairs and casted away the sweat that had been ruining their celebration makeup. “To a city? You know this won’t be there.”

Again she inhaled, as deep as she possibly could, until her lungs hurt and her eyes watered and her muscles seized beneath her toasty skin. Senior gown a vivid red color made them stand out in the yellow field on that rusty green tractor, the ends dirtied with mud and their heels left discarded somewhere on the tilled earth nearby. As Morgan thought about her answer, she watched a dark figure stand motionlessly in the distance, its body bound in leather with a white, ghostly mask mounted upon its face. Though she saw it, her dream self didn’t seem to react. As if it were completely normal. She sighed, her back pressed against the rusty door as she kicked her hanging leg nonchalantly, staring at the ghost.

“Sure, where’s the harm in going somewhere new?”

A wretched gasp tore from her lips. With her shoulder pressed firmly against the wall, Morgan stumbled back, nearly toppling over onto the bloodstained ground. She wheezed, jaw clenching hard with brows knitting against each other like the tight string of a bow. “Don’t sleep,” her soft chant combined with a gag, the tears building up along the corners of her eyes as she took a step—or more so a limp—forward. So desperately did she move, slow at that too. Every inch she’d drag herself forward before stepping again, her own blood smearing across the cold surface of the wall. Freezing air wafted up her wet back, across her pale skin, and left the deep cut grooved into her arm stinging.

 _Greeley,_ her thoughts were humming like a mosquito around a bug zapper. _Why did I dream about him in Greeley?_ She hadn’t been there in almost twenty years, but she remembered it so vividly. Just as how she left it. Bright, warm, beautiful. One could see everything for miles.

_I should have never left there._

Left Greeley, left home. She shouldn’t have never done a lot of things, like refusing law school and moving to Florida on her waitress funds and going to criminal forensics. A cough tore through her throat as she continued staggering on, tasting the thickness of her saliva but not quite noticing it. All she could perceive was the pain and the cold. As the corners of her vision began to fade, Morgan shook her head and mumbled under her breath.

“Don’t fall asleep.”

And the hatch, where was it exactly? Through the curtain of her bangs she looked behind her, the hallway dark and eerie. Hollow noises and the moan of the building called to her, beckoning for her to sleep. To give up eternally.

Hoping took too much energy…

Another gasp, her eye shot open to see the ground. She didn’t even notice she was hunching over, only moments from toppling upon the concrete floor. Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself straight, straining her muscles and swallowing a cry. Shit, everything felt so difficult. Staying away, walking, standing. A voice whispered in the back of her mind.

**_Give up._ **

Giving her head a violent shake, she prodded a loose tooth with her tongue until the terrible pain gave her a new wave of adrenaline. Stifling a groan, she opened her eyes once again to see her vision ever blurrier than previously. Fingers clasped over her quivering lips, smearing blood across her skin that left a vile taste in her mouth. The sound of belts fluttering tickled her earlobes, Morgan ceasing all movement and jerking back to glance over her shoulder. There was nothing there.

A breath, a hiccup. She looked forward once more, meeting the horrifying white mask of the killer that’d been haunting her dreams for so many months. He made a frustrated noise when she fell back, watching the tip of his hooked blade jab straight into the wall were her head was once leaning. In the spark of a moment she felt her energy return, her body messily standing. Morgan sprinted around a corner, escaping his sight, weaving through barrels and doorways and narrow corridors that led to darker patches and blinding LED lights flickering ominously. In the heart of downstairs was a grated room, the floors layered in blood both fresh and old. As her head stared panicked behind her shoulder to see if she were being pursued, her feet caught no traction and she slipped down with a hard fall, hanging carcasses of fat pigs drained of their life serving as witness of her plight with sunken eyes. A television blinked blindingly with the constant ring of white noise. A nude corpse leaned against the wall, bounded and disemboweled, the stench of rot beneath the morbid smells of everything else flooding her senses. Morgan gaged, pushing herself onto her knees and cursing at herself for slipping too many times in a single trial.

A rough gag clenched in her gut. She was about to vomit, trying desperately to hold it in, but the thick squish of coagulated blood burying beneath her nailbeds was too much of a sensation for her to bear. Eyes stung, her breathing raspy and heavy and loud. The Ghostface was so quiet, she doubted she could ever hear him even if she were calmer, collected, more prepared.

 ** _“Ohhhh where… oh where… has my Morgan gone?”_** the drifting sound of his sinister voice carried across the multiple halls as he sang hauntingly. Frightened, Morgan stared at all the many entrances, her brain firing all cylinders as she finally stood on her two aching feet.

**_“Oh where… oh where… can she beeee?”_ **

Choosing an entrance, she was about to spring off when she noticed the bloody soles of her shoes. Surely, the killer would follow. _Calm down! Calm down, calm down, calm down. Think Morgan!_ Opening her eyes, she cautiously stepped out of the hall and removed her boots, mindful to not stain her socks. Once off, she took feather weighted steps back into the terrible red room, preserving her previous tracks, and then slipped into the locker. Within, she could hear her own breathing, ear numbingly heavy as it echoed within the tight metal confines. Fingers pressed over her lips with her good hand, her eyes scanning through the grating to see if he’d pass by.

**_“With her hair cut short and her cries so sweet… oh where, oh where… can she…”_ **

Ghostface fell silent, her flared nostrils pressed beneath her quivering fingers to suppress as much of her own panicked noises as she could. To not hear him anymore, she feared she wouldn’t be able to track him. Morgan remembered once being told how the crows grew displeased when a survivor hid for far too long. Like their master, they craved the spilling of blood. Not to feed, but to eagerly watch the turmoil unfold was a joy to them. How long did it take though? For the crows to grow impatient with her hiding? A new wave of panic began to thrum in her heart, the organ racing fast. Not from the presence of a killer, but from her own raw fear swelling up in her mind. The pressure built, she swore her head was going to explode, when suddenly she saw a dark figure appear in the room. Too close for comfort, she nearly screamed, but swallowed her own voice upon noticing that he wasn’t looking within the locker. Ghostface had entered the room, the knife held out at the ready and his belts swishing around him like feelers desperate to grab hold onto flesh. He studied the ground, spotting her boots abandoned out in the hall.

The killer was creeping, covering up his presence and stalking through the darkness in search of her trail. If she were only twenty seconds longer he would have caught her. The thought alone made her muscles shiver, but she pressed her body firm against the back of the locker, hoping that he would assume she ran off without her shoes leaving a bloody trail of footprints behind.

 _Please take the bait,_ she thought, not daring to close her eyes, otherwise she’d lose sight of him. Ghostface stared curiously down at her shoes, his knife flicking the air as he made a noise she couldn’t quite decipher. Just like that he stalked off, disappearing around the corner and down an invisible path where he assumed she went. Relief poured from her as she gasped in surprise, taking deep, delicious breaths hungrily once enough time had passed. The door opened with a small creak, making her body tense before stepping out. Socks absorbed the blood. Morgan eyed the corpse of the dead man one final time before approaching the door from which they entered. Slipping off her socked, she tossed them somewhere in the room and proceeded running down the hall barefoot, the cold of that room leaving her skin chilled like ice. She had to ignore the biting cold that seized up her calves, seeing no time for desiring the luxury of socks in such a trying time. The killer had disappeared just as he’d arrived. Every move of his—furtive and calculated. It was like fighting against a genius. Could she possibly win against such greater means?

No, Morgan had no time to think about that.

The hatch, she had to listen for it. And that was assuming she was heading in the right direction.

Every breath made a fog, her lungs wheezing like they’d been punctured. Limited were her steps, drawing dangerously toward that final one her body could muster before shutting down completely. With the world shifting beneath her, she swallowed back the sick that wanted to spill out as the vertigo hit her in untimely waves. Morgan knew she was being louder than she intended. Slowing down, she resisted the urge to lean on the wall and glanced behind her. Droplets of blood peppered the floor, leaving behind a trail of ruby crumbs to her exact location. The woman hissed, kneeling around an assortment of cargo boxes to press harder against her cut. Shit, her face was hurting so much. Pain beyond reasoning engulfed the entirety of her cheek and jaw. She prayed there was something useful in the crates, but only bundles of blue tarp were folded and stacked within its confines.

**_GIVE UP._ **

There was whispering deep inside her brain, never growing louder than above a faint murmur. The sensation left a tickle in her brain, as if thin strands of spider web was being wrapped around her psyche. Hands reached up. She squeezed her skull in desperation, her pupils quivering within the pools of panic flooding from behind her eyes. Her heart was hammering, but not from the Ghostface’s presence. Rather, her own panic burdened her. A deep breath flooded her nostrils, so… so cold that it left her trachea burning.

_Am I going mad?_

A few punches to her cranium, she relentlessly whispered to herself. _“Shut up shut up shut up!”_ Like an incantation, echoing into the deepest depths of her mind. Morgan hated Freudianism, but it _felt_ like the whispers were coming from some uncharted territory in the vastness of her being. Like distant memories she just couldn’t recall. Like old memories she wanted to leave dead. She squeezed her eyes tight until the tears were streaming.

 _Leave me alone,_ she thought aggressively, trying hard to purge the voice of the Entity from her mind. Had this been what the killers faced all along? Was this the terror and pain and fueled those like Susie to act so violently toward the flock for slaughter?

**_G I V E U P_ **

“No… shut up! Leave me alone,” she hissed, biting her tongue hard to nullify her struggles, nearly forgetting about the Ghostface altogether. Ringing, like a grenade had blasted too close, and then… moaning. Like the groaning of an uncharted cave. From her spot, Morgan glanced up, an eye nearly bloodshot in its entirety. She heard it. The eerie vocation of the hatch, her salvation. Morgan gripped the wall, dragging her body up. Spent, she struggled to stabilize her footing. No matter how fast she wanted to move, she just couldn’t bring herself to go beyond what she was currently. Every limp she could hear it grow louder. Black smoke was fuming from the endless pit, the metal latch that looked so incredibly heavy facing one of the intersecting hallways far down the corridor. Morgan gasped, the sweat dripping from her chin merging with blood and forming diluted pink droplets on her shorts and feet. Breaths slowed down, shallow as to not entice endless coughing. A trail of blood followed behind her like guidance arrows pained on the walls. The cut was pried open and grated and gouged deeper in her endeavors, but she couldn’t stop herself from moving. So close… it was so close.

_There!_

She let her body push off the wall, falling willfully toward the terrifying pit that hungrily waited for a survivor.

**_“No you don’t!”_ **

Yet a startled cry tore out when arms suddenly wrapped around her, spinning her away from the hatch. Far… it was getting smaller, those hollowed noises drowning out into a faded memory as she screamed her loudest. She’d been plucked off her feet and thrown over his shoulder, the creaking of a hook growing closer and closer. Fingers dug into the leather cloak, nails bending the wrong way and tears pitter pattering down the expanse of his broad back. So many calloused swears were sputtering out of her raw throat, loud and shrill and demented with every ounce of hate in her body. So close.

She was so _close._

Taking her feet, she pushed against his diaphragm and dug her toes deep, feeling the hard press of firm abs and burying her nails through the little spaces. The Ghostface wheezed, stirring for a moment, attempting to stop her antics. She pushed harder and harder until her weight shifted too far back, staining it all against his arm until his balance was thrown off. He released her, her body hitting the ground hard and messily. As he reached down to grab around her hips, the woman let out a feral cry and swung her elbow around her head. It jabbed him in the throat, his knife grazing her exposed side. Morgan was barely running, returning to the hatch and tripping over her own two feet, her lungs bursting, and teeth bore and heart racing with fresh panic. No, she didn’t even look behind her. She was going to get out!

But then she heard something she wasn’t expecting.

The Ghostface started to sing.

_“… Didn’t I **make** you **feel** like you were **the** only **woman** … yeah…”_

It was like she’d forgotten how to run. Legs came to a painful stop, Morgan’s breath hitched as her ears caught the faintest sounds of something that made her thick of white noise, or radio feedback. Beneath it, that sinister voice she’d come to hate ever since it first called her was rattling, merging with a voice that was far too recognizable. Hearing it made her body quake, the familiarity causing her mind to blank. Blood pooled beneath her feet. That was how long she’d been standing, her back turned completely from the killer. Vulnerable, breathing loudly from her mouth, her eyes rearing open wide at the sound of that song.

That voice.

And the hum of the nearby hatch became void against the broken thrumming of that synthetic tone continuing to sing to her, serenading hauntingly against the deadly chill hanging like cobwebs in the air.

_“ **Didn’t** I **give** you nearly everything **that** a man **possibly** **can** … honey, **you** **know** I did.”_

Breath shaken, she told herself to keep moving. To not turn around. _A trick,_ she thought. _It’s a trick… a sick… fucking…_ yet she glanced timorously around her scratched-up shoulder, seeing the Ghostface standing perfectly still in the middle of the corridor. His dirtied mask was still like a pristine white that stood out against the hazy darkness of the room. Something sprouted in her mind—a concept—that was too painful to comprehend. But what disturbed her most was how farfetched it didn’t seem. No longer running away, Morgan fully turned to face him, observing the way he stood so horridly calm beneath her fearful, confounded gaze. Slowly she approached the deranged killer, every little centimeter careful and calculated, her bloody arm dangling to her side as she squeezed against the cut as tightly as possible. So tight it sprouted an incredible pain, but she soaked it in. Ate it up to dull her thoughts, like biting one’s nails in the midst of a panic. _I-It’s not… it isn’t. Just leave. Just go._ Her head began to shake, disbelief bleeding through her usual stubborn expression, her lips caught in a dangerously low frown.

“ ** _And_** _each **time I tell myself** that I, **well** I think I’ve had **enough** , **but** I’m gonna **show** you baby, that **a** man can **be** **tough** ,” _his dark voice was deep and slithered more sinisterly than any thick fog or vortex of ash that the realm could ever manifest. His fingers gripped his knife, making a squeaky leather sound.

_“I **want** you to **come on** … come **on** … **come on… come on…”**_

There he stood at arms-length distance. She could feel his heat radiating off him, as he was likely sweating beneath all those layers. From all that chasing and fighting and killing. A breathing that was slow, deep, and eager swept from his mask. It basked across the top of her head, making her bones quiver beneath her skin. No attack, no threat, just waiting to see what she’d balls herself to do next. Morgan’s fingers quaked at the invitation. _Don’t be him._ Hesitantly she reached up, her movements too slow: half from terror, half from disinclination.

 _"Take it,"_ he whispered.

Morgan gulped, her loud gasps of breath signifying the evident panic that danced throughout her body. It was that voice. She was stricken with such fear, she wanted to run away. Gripping the elongated chin of the terrifying mask, Morgan pulled it over his head and threw it to the ground in one sluggish, apprehensive motion that contrasted the extreme impatience and need boiling inside of her. No, she didn’t the confirmation. Deep, _deep_ , **_deep_** down she knew that now. She never wanted to know because of that _one_ possibility.

Finally, she could see his face and…

Morgan heard her breathing echo inside of her empty skull until falling short. A scream that wretched in her heart was suppressed, nothing came out. Only a breath that died the moment it slipped from her tight lungs. A terrible sensation rose slowly from her eyes throughout her tired body. A falling feeling that consumed her consciousness. The freezing ground beneath her felt colder. Nothing seemed stable anymore, seemed right. Blue eyes were looking down at her beaten up and bloody form that watched back in… in utter horror. No, not that. She couldn’t even describe what she was feeling. Everything felt so wrong. Was this what it felt like? When the worse could possibly happen? Her fingers clutched tightly around the fabric of her tank top, her feet pressing harder against the ground. She wanted to move but was cemented into place.

“Jed…” she whispered, because that face shouldn’t belong on that body. That face—she’d rather it be on a slaughtered corpse rotting somewhere in a bog between sawgrass blades. All gutted up and left for her to find and mourn over because though that would have been _believed_ to be the worse thing to happen, this… **this** was cataclysmic. This was the worse case scenario. This was beyond words, beyond recovery. Morgan swore she was having a heart attack, her fingers squeezing the fabric so tight it started to tear.

“ _Jed_ ,” she sputtered gruelingly yet again, the name feeling like a forbidden curse slipping from her stretched lips. Her body, it had hurt so much, but the moment she saw his face all she felt was cold and numb. His smile slowly crawled up in an unearthly manner. It made her think of spiders creeping up a wall behind the back of her head. There he tilted his head, staring down at her disturbed state in a petrifying way.

 ** _“Jed?”_** he echoed, his body like a sinister pillar in a cult shrine. It wafted with pure evil, the scent of blood and entrails radiating from his dark cloak. The belts wisped behind him, making him seem more inhuman. More deranged. As the mask hit the floor, Morgan’s fingers twitched. A blind rage overwhelmed her. Like a puppet she barraged his chest with punches far too weak than her usual. Tears streamed from her eyes, her cheeks red and bloodshot eyes bursting further. Blue eyes shined with delight, watching the breakdown unfold until finally she landed her last punch straight for his mouth. The killer stumbled back, chest rattling with a cackle so wild as blood spilt from him spine-chilling grin.

It was that same… sickening laugh from the Ghostface.

Finding her breath once again, she seethed out an agonizing cry, fisting at her hair as she stumbled backwards. Her back hit the wall where she doubled over and screamed once more. No, she couldn’t fucking even look at him. It hurt too damn much. This couldn’t be happening.

None of it… none of this… was this a nightmare?

_It’s not real! It’s fake right? I-It’s fucking fake!_

“Morgan…” he called, voice as creamy and… and charming as she could remember, except there was a darker flare to it. As she looked up, only to see his face still remain upon that killer’s shoulders, Morgan reeled within herself in disbelief, her nails tearing at her scalp as she pressed her palms over her ears. Furiously she shook her head, refusing to hear his voice. His words. To see those eyes, void of life of dancing with malicious intent. From her peripheral she noticed him take a slow step forward, wider than she’d like.

“ ** _Don’t_** _!”_ she hissed, body jerking like a skittish cat. No, she didn’t want him anywhere near her. “ _Fuck_ you… fuck you **_fuck you FUCK YOU!”_ **she shouted so loud her voice began to strain, nearly snap. “You’re not real,” she muttered beneath her breath, eyes scanning the floor frantically for some miraculous solution to this otherworldly problem. Something no human should face. _“You’re not real… this isn’t real…”_ There was so much she wanted to say, so much, but she couldn’t speak. Not coherently. Not collectedly. In no way could she reason with her own madness, portray the hurt inside that was rotting and making everything feel so heavy… heavy… **_heavy._**

“Really narrowed me out of the list after the incident, huh?”

Morgan winced whenever he spoke. It’d been so long since she heard him… since she touched him. How much time was spent thinking about him while at the campfire? Staring at his pictures and contemplating life together. Wondering what it would be like. Living with him. Cooking with him. Doing… Morgan covered her eyes, bit down so hard she was about to eat her own lip. With gloved fingers he popped open his cloak, revealing his abdomen and a nasty scar just off to the side of his bellybutton. A wail was swallowed as she turned her eyes away. A new level of hate she didn’t know existed blossomed in the pit of her gut. As he grabbed her hand tightly and forced her forward, Morgan yelped and fought back, freezing over at the sensation of his hot, sweaty skin. The scar was real and bumpy, flared along the cut that’s long since healed.

“It’s **_me_** Morgan,” he urged, voice laced with poison and madness as his grip tightened. Any disbelief inside of her brain snapped. She knew. She knew, she knew, she KNEW. In a fit of fright and rage, she reached up and dug her nails against his face, scratching and leaving reddened marks that made the killer wince. A delighted cackle broke from his lips, making her mind ring as she stumbled back for the hatch. Jed’s arms swung open, wrapping tight around her fleeing form. The woman kicked, pressing her feet against the wall to try and knock them over, her screams bouncing off the walls and filling Gideon meat plant with a plethora of cries and curses merging with Jed’s psychotic cackles. Hitting the floor, she writhed beneath him, teeth and nails scraping against thick leather and metal buckles. The knife came crashing down near her ear, slicing the lobe just by a hair. Morgan froze, chest rising and falling fast, her eyes wide in fear but her face burning with a hellish rage.

“You can’t leave yet Morgy! I thought you missed me?” he crooned.

Morgan’s hateful growl slithered between shaky, uncontrolled breaths. Saliva splatted against his face, the killer’s eyes shutting tight. A laugh was forced out of him, eyes gleaming dangerously as he watched her vulnerable beneath him. Heavy legs dug into hers, pinning her down, their bodies hot and pressed together, a warmth that she leered at. The cold of the plant, the carnage of the basement… she’d take anything over **him.**

So hard did she try to fight it, but the tears were rolling down the sides of her face. Betrayed by her own motions, Morgan shook her head and groaned, attempting to escape his gaze that made her feel so small. So foolish, and stupid, and helpless. A soothing hush escaped him, but it was disgusting sounding to her ears. With his free hand he tried to wipe away the tears, smearing blood across her injured cheek. The broken bone radiated with an agonizing pain. Morgan yelped and bared her teeth, missing his thumb by just a hair after she bit at him.

“Look at how rough you made me get. I didn’t want to hit your pretty face, but I was so pissed off… do you forgive me?”

With a deep breath she screamed like before. She screamed, and screamed, and screamed until her lungs burned with emptiness and ache. Until her voice broke and her eyes pour with fresh new tears. Until her own ears rung from the pain, and from there she screamed some more. It stopped abruptly, her eyes plastered with a hate that she’d never felt before. So raw and powerful, a seething feeling no human should have to experience. He stared down at her, his face making him seem so distant. Not physically, but in that other way. As if he were far, far off, and what was mounting her was an empty shell of a man. Yet his eyes were locked into hers, watching deeply and soaking in her agony. Morgan’s lips parted again, her teeth crushing against each other as a deep breath blew in and flowed out. Hot, as if coals resided in her throat.

 ** _“I. Hate. You,”_** she whispered venomously.

The knife twirled against the concrete, sending unpleasant sounds down her eardrum. Morgan cringed beneath him as he hummed at her discomfort, yet her eyes never left his. Shaking her head, she blinked away the annoying tears and somehow found it in her to speak. “How?” she pressed, her body recognizing the damage more intensely now that his was warming her up. Missing the numb of the cold, she pressed further into the cooler ground that her body had been gradually heating up.

“You were hurt… you were under watch.”

“A killer is very astute, Morgan. I’ve killed many people throughout my life. All those pictures at my house? Some victims back when I lived at Chattanooga, Tennessee, some from Chicago, a few from Philly. Small town cops don't keep track on that sort of stuff like they'd ought to. Nor are they alert, but then again, sneaking is my specialty. And as for pain, well, sometimes pain is necessary. You, you're a special case that called for special means,” he explained rather proudly, poking the tip of her nose teasingly through his banter. Then he graced her thin neck with the tips of his fingers in a disturbingly endearing manner. Her eyes widened in horror.

“You… You faked it all. The break in. The attack,” she growled.

Jed smiled, holding the knife up to gleam in the light before her. It was coated in blood that had already begun to dry and darken. “Every. Little. Thing.” He paused, staring down at her with a darkened gaze, his lips parting in thought as she writhed beneath him in stark fear. “Well,” he thought as he spoke, “Maybe not _everything_.” A deep breath escaped him, blanketing her stinging skin. A gloved hand buried deep into her hair, massaging at the roots tenderly, not once pulling. It was as if he were enjoying the feel of her. It sickened her just as much as it horrified her. Morgan shivered at his touch, unable to rid herself of him, completely at his mercy.

No… psychos weren’t merciful, were they?

“You meant… **everything** … to me, Jed,” she whispered, teeth clenched so hard they were about to crack. He paused, a curious look on his face. And then he smiled down at her, relishing the moment. A moment he seemed to have been waiting for so long.

“That’s not my name,” he whispered, face drawing so close to hers. With wide eyes she held her breath, feeling his knife grace her exposed belly with his fingertips, the featherlike touches sending shivers down her spine. Jed opened his eyes, the pale blue capturing her attention fully. Usually so distant and lifeless but presenting some enjoyment at the sight of her.

_“My name… is **Danny.”**_

He drew his face closer to hers, sending the woman’s heart in a fit of disgusted panic. Morgan reeled back, throwing her head forward until her skull came crashing into his. A noise ripped from Danny’s throat, his body leaning back far from the sudden impact. Snarling, he took her head and returned the favor. Harder, more direct, Morgan swore her skull actually did crack from the headbutt. Everything became blurry for Morgan, her eyes watery with ringing ears as she rolled over with a hoarse groan. Panting, Danny got on his feet.

“ _A_ for _effort_ , baby, but I’m a bit dirtier than you are,” he grunted. On her hands and knees, Morgan made a crawl toward the hatch. Slow, weak, like an injured turtled. It was so close, she could feel the cold spewing out and smell the fog scented like wet earth and burnt flesh brushing her nose. A cry wheezed out her throat when he yanked her back, stomach dragging against the floor. Through blurry vision she could see Danny approaching the hatch, whistling all the while as he pressed the tip of his steel-toed boots along the heavy lid. It came crashing down with a loud, booming noise. Morgan gasped, scrambling for the door when he’d given her some breathing room, only to find it far too sealed and heavy for her to open.

“Wouldn’t mind teaching you how to be dirty, though…”

“Fuck!” she cried out, pushing her fingers between the seams in desperation. Danny’s sudden violent grip made her shriek as she was yanked up into the air and pressed against the adjacent wall. All the air escaped her lungs, her world spinning. Despite her incredible hate for him, Morgan couldn’t help but lean her body limply against him as he reared her head back by her locks to look at her better.

“Shh, shh, shhhh. Why are you trying to leave? I thought you **loved** me. What sort of girlfriend ditches out on their man after being apart for so long?”

“Go **fuck** yourself! Leave me alone!” she spat.

Danny only chuckled, “Only if you’ll watch. You know, I think I did pretty good this time around. That means I get to spend as much time with you as I want…” he trailed off, thinking about what he said before looking at her with a surprised expression. “I’ve dreamed so much about this moment… but now that it’s here… now that you’re here, with no cops or masks to hide behind…” he groaned at the thought, riled up by the excitement in his chest. A feeling he himself wasn’t too familiar with experiencing. Shaking his shoulders like a wet dog, Danny giggled and gleamed at her. “I’m overwhelmed with the possibilities. What about you, Morgan, have you been thinking about me this whole time?”

“Yeah, about how much I’d do _anything_ to kill you and watch the life drain from your eyes,” her voice was softer than she hoped for, tinged with sickness and dizziness as her eyes struggled to stay open. The blood loss, the injuries. They were all piling up against her. Hands pressed weakly against his chest, unable to resist as he breathed in her scent and teased her quaking carotid artery with the tip of his knife.

“Woah, I must be rubbing off on you huh? That toughness makes me love you more, you know that?” he mused, eyes dancing with danger and delight. Morgan gulped, remembering their moments together. The times where she became weak to him, exposed her true light, worried endlessly for him. Laid against him, tears and all, and then finally kissing him on his couch, and all the other times after as he snatched her breath away, despite her insisting he didn’t. Not at all, and then not in public, and then fine… but nothing more than kissing. Loving on her.

Toying with her.

Eating her heart out.

Playing sick, twisted games.

With his little puppet in his little stage.

“Everybody… in the world… at your disposal…” Morgan said weakly, tears streaming down her eyes because his face… that face she longed to see again. It was staring at her with a knife in its hands and a crazy look in its eyes. That face, with eyes so lifeless like all those corpses she’d seen in her life.

She just had to _fucking_ care about it.

“But you chose… me,” she croaked, fire burning out just slightly from the exhaustion. From the mental damage and betrayal and… the list was endless. Danny tilted his head, that joyful look fading as he digested her question down to the very last letter.

“… because you’re **_you_** Morgan.”

“Bullshit,” she stirred, staring at him with hate-filled eyes once again. “Anybody else could have been it.”

A dangerous look filled his eyes as he gripped her hair tighter. “ _Anybody?”_ he echoed, a bit of anger tinging his words as she reeled beneath his iron grasp. Danny breathed deeper, pressing closer into her as if to make his point. “Why that picture?” he asked. Morgan looked upon his psychotic face in confusion. “Of all the pictures you’ve ever taken, why is _that_ one… with the rotting carcass on the cliffside… your favorite?” he questioned, his fingers tilting her jaw up slightly to look up at him more directly. “The Ghostface… is my best work. Just like how your picture is to you Morgan. **_I_** do what **_I_** want with him, **_I_** make it how **_I_ **want it to go. Movies? They’re redundant. I realized I’d always know what would happen when I watched them. Who would die first, when it would happen, right down to who the killer was. All it would take me was twenty minutes from the start and I’d have it all figured out. It’s _frustrating_ to be like that. To never get _surprised_ , or fucking scared even! **AND** you know what? Real life wasn’t all that different from the damn movies. So I made Ghostface. I thought I’d at least get a kick at making my **own** motion in my **own** headlines. And at first it was great. It’s like being high when nobody else but me knew. You see, I _thought_ I was really feeling something then. But then you…”

Displaying his knife, he watched her still staring at him and only him and found it utterly fascinating. “You see, you… you always _surprised_ me. You _weren’t_ predictable. **_That’s_** why it’s you! Because no one else can fill up the spot you’re in now so _perfectly_. You make me **_feel_** something, Morgan! Nobody else but you in that shithole Roseville, and nobody else on the shithole earth can do that!”

The passion behind his words made his body tremor excitedly, frustratingly. Overcoming his fit of passion, Danny looked down at her, his wild eyes fading into a softer look. That striking blue looked cold and pale, the lifelessness she originally remembered them yielding haunting her like a brutal slap across the face. Amid her pain, she couldn’t shy away as his hands graced her cheeks endearingly, the soulless look in his eyes still managing to harbor some sick, twisted sense of longing.

“The day I first came over to your house I was planning on killing you. I love getting to know my victims a bit beforehand, only my favorites. And I take pictures to remember them by. Revisiting them helped me recall that tiny ounce of excitement I would get. But then you showed me your _favorite_ picture, and then I realized it… no **picture** I could take… would ever be good enough to contain you. At that point you'd be dead. So, I had to change everything. You evolved the Ghostface that day. It’s like… you’re a part of him now. A part of me.” Morgan would have spat at him again if her mouth wasn’t so dry. Would have vomited if she weren’t so horrifically entranced by his oddly intimate evocation. His hand reached into some deep, hidden pocket beneath his coat to reveal a small little camera. The very same she saw him wielding before. “Remember Philly? He can’t make anything live up to you,” he said. Morgan’s face winced, the stretching of her flesh beneath his bloody fingers sapping her energy but keeping her far from passing out. Again, he was touching her cheeks tenderly, his fingers digging deep into her scalp and massaging like he’d done when they were first reunited.

“You can imagine the problem I was facing. If I couldn’t _kill_ you, because nothing could possibly _replace_ you, then what was I to do? You're too valuable. Everything else was fool's gold!” Danny giggled madly, the excitement in his eyes burning through her. _“Then this place happened…! It never ends Morgan! I_ never _have to worry about you dying!”_

Through staggered breaths she pressed out words, “One day your sick twisted sense of fun will stop… I’ll lose hope… and then the Void!” She gasped when the pain spiked throughout her body a thousand-fold. Danny, still grinning widely, only shook his head.

“Oh Morgan, I know you better than your own self. I don’t have to worry about that, little miss revolutionist, because you’ll never… **ever…** give up! That’s how surprising you are. And that’s why _you_ are the apple of my eye~.”

And then silence. His babbling finally ceased, the light in his eyes dimming until nothing was left but his usual stare, except it seemed off. Frightened, even. Swallowing, she watched his Adam’s apple bounce anxiously, the grip on his knife so tight she could hear the seams of his leather glove popping. “No…” Danny uttered, his jaw clenching as he stared not quite at Morgan, but through her. Before he could put a word in, a loud crack shattered through the concrete floor between them, bright yellow light seeping through with an unmistakable heat that stank of burning flesh. Danny stumbled back as Morgan pressed hard against the wall, eyes welling up with shock at such a terrorizing sight. The cracks were everywhere, like small fissures at the bottom of the deep abyss, bleeding out an overwhelming heat. Gripping his knife, Danny stared at the ground in bewilderment, no more coy words spilling from his mouth. That fact that he, too, was speechless… that only meant that this was new even to him. Morgan swallowed, feeling the wall behind her and grasping at it as the earth beneath her feet rumbled like a growling beast.

“What the hell is this?” Morgan whimpered out loud, her feet careful to not step upon one of the fissures as she broke out in a nervous sweat. As she scampered left in right, unable to think of what to do, she heard Danny cry out agonizingly.

 _“What are you doing? I did… **everything** … you wanted,” _he spoke. To know that he was speaking with **_It_** sent a tremble down her limbs. Morgan remembered the killers that fought against it, recalled all the times in which Danny himself was forced to be a puppet himself. A part of Morgan relished at the thought that he got his just desserts. But as quickly as that excitement came, it was gone. The nurse was a puppet. Susie was a puppet. Danny… he, too, was a puppet. Just then, his pale blue irises flashed red.

“Wait… don’t… she’s **MINE… she… she isn’t your… ahh! NO, get out! Get the hell out of my head!** ” he slashed out violently, knife colliding against the wall and making sparks. Frightened, Morgan went to escape, but she’d reached her last step. Hitting the ground hard, she dragged herself the few feet she could manage while watching Danny double over, staring at the strange, corrupt glow casting from the floor as he clutched his head between his hands. **“Get… out…! Get out, get out, GET OUT. My thoughts, my head, let me… _let me_ …!”**

Then he stopped moving altogether, his head pinched between his hands as he was hunched on the ground. Morgan’s breaths were panicked and shallow, her eyes locked as the man stood slowly. He breathed harshly, sweat coating his skin with a glistening sheen as blood drizzled down his nose, passed his lips, and down his chin.

He huffed, gripping his knife, and Morgan’s body propped on her one elbow as she watched him stagger for a moment. _Did he just… resist it?_ Whenever they did, it was only because it got what it wanted. Regardless, was this better for her, or worse? As Danny’s form straightened there came a crumbling sound beneath Morgan’s hands. Claws of the entity—black and glistening with oil—broken through and clamped against her body with a vice grip. Her revolted scream echoed across the hall as she kicked with new vigor at the crackling limbs, the sharp exterior slicing at the bottoms of her bare feet. “What the hell,” Danny grimaced, but as a tendril pierced through sky bound, ripping and tearing, the warmth of red plopping across the room, her screaming was cut short and found herself staring breathlessly at the ceiling.

_What’s happening…?_

Head lolled far back, she perceived Danny’s hunched form upside-down, the warm amber glow cascading upon his outraged features. Blood splatted along his face, his eyes reared wide open with disbelief. He looked started, horrified even, at the display of alien-like brutality before him. With wide eyes he watched, mouth agape.

“You said you’d leave us alone…” he sputtered, shaking his head. _“You said **THREE** was **enough**!” _Stumbling forward and reaching out in an effort to snatch one of her limp arms. Faded eyes watched him jerk back when it coiled tightly against her torso hard, hard, until a loud **_snap_** rung in their ears. Morgan gasped, her breath cut short from the inhuman joint pressing hard into her diaphragm. A death rattle wheezed out of her, tempted to reach out for help. But Morgan curled her fingers in and instead grabbed the claw pinning down her throat, pushing with all her might while the taste of nasty iron rose up from her stomach. She… couldn’t feel her legs anymore. From between her eyes she could see a pike, long and sharp, positioning itself. Danny’s lamented screams burning with a rage she’d never heard from him before was the last thing she heard.

 **_“Her_ ** _… what do you mean because it’s **HER**? Morgan belongs to **ME** , you space crab fucker… no, **don’t**!”_

That last bit, she could have sworn Danny called out her name. At first, everything hurt terribly, but only for a moment.

*****

Distant voices were speaking to her. Endless whispers coveted for streams of endless suffering. Fingers cold from love but hot with hunger pinched and tugged at her skin, zapping out something inside of her. Morgan felt lost, alone, eternally damned yet with little desire to escape whatever tragedy she’d stumbled upon. It swallowed her up whole, and she took it willingly, because why fight it? It only wanted to make her forget. Wasn’t that enough?

**_G i v e u p_ **

Sweet words whispered from the back of her mind. Sweeter than honey mead on dry lips. Sweeter than sleep after years of not being able to. The touch hurt her, but it made her forget what she didn’t want to remember. Maybe she should just give up?

**_G i v e u p , M o r g a n_ **

Anything to forget him. Yet as that terrible feeling wrapped tighter around her very soul, Morgan became aware. Hyper aware. Too much was happening, too many unwanted things going on. She longed to forget but strived through it to keep on remembering. Jed… she missed Jed. She wanted to be held again. She missed… _Danny_ …

… his name… is _Danny_.

 _Jed isn’t real,_ she thought.

**_Soon, there will be no anchor for your hope._ **

“Morgan!”

A dark, starless sky was painted above the great expanse of the endless, fake sky. Morgan breathed—she’d forgotten how to—and when it flowed through her sore throat it hurt. Like being birthed again she coughed viciously, lunging forward but being stabilized by many hands. Warm, real, loving hands. The scent of David King was rugged with a hint of something faintly pleasant. Surprisingly, it was his smell that stirred her awake. His hold was strong and burly, contrasting greatly the gentler hold of Laurie who still spoke with an urgency. Morgan was lost in thought, staring at them but not understanding. Everything was like a dream.

“Morgan, sweetie,” she felt hands touching her face. It was Meg, her lips pulled down into a frown and her eyes displaying an incredible amount of guilt.

“You were gone for so long… we though… that maybe…” Dwight trailed off, standing to the side, seemingly the only person who wanted to give her some breathing room. As the small group of survivors continued to assess her, contemplating that perhaps she’d been pulled straight into another trial or maybe a different campfire, Morgan glanced down and felt her camera gripped between her sweaty palms. She always held onto her camera, even when she didn’t realize it, but as her eyes landed upon a certain element she felt her hands begin to quake. It was back to its normal self, not damaged in the slightest. The gifted lens glistened from the firelight, hauntingly.

Morgan’s hands shook violently.

“Oh no…” Meg’s words drifted into a silence that the group took bitterly.

“What?” David drawled, brows pinched together with annoyance. “The hell is it?”

“You saw him… didn’t you?” Meg asked, voice quivering as she leaned back to see the look on Morgan’s face. Horrified, broken… enraged. The photographer’s head casted down low, her shoulders shaking, they couldn’t see her face beneath the curtain of her dark hair.

“What is it? What did she see?” Laurie questioned.

A choked, broken gasp hiccups from her pressed lips, Morgan struggling against the powerful urge to break down. No, she had to be strong. She couldn’t break down, not in front of them. But… but…

“I’m sorry.”

Morgan looked up, her eyes puffy and red, spilling with that salty hot liquid. They presented so much hate as she looked toward Meg. It wasn’t meant for her though, yet she couldn’t contain it. Like a lion in a plastic cage pressing against the faulty locks with its tremendous weight. On the verge of it slipping, Morgan abruptly stood, her fingers latching around the camera lens to screw it off. Breaking through the small crowd of concerned survivors, Morgan vehemently stormed toward the edge of the invisible line, her body feeling the unknown force that kept them back, far back, from the territory of the wolves. With a loud, mind-numbing scream, Morgan threw her arm back and launched the lens across that invisible line, far beyond her or anybody’s capabilities of retrieving. It zipped across the darkness, hitting treetops and bushels of grass, so far off that none of them heard it land.

 ** _“I HATE YOU!”_** she cried out, voice breaking but her furry burning anew now that her body was healed, and her mind was not fazing in and out of consciousness. Through clenched teeth she simmered and bled with hate, fingers open and closing so tight that her palms began to bleed from her own nails. **_“I FUCKING HATE YOU!”_**

“S-Somebody stop her!” Dwight cried out from his spot, but as Jeff was about to approach the enraged woman, he was stopped by Yui gripping his jacket sleeve tightly.

“Don’t.”

“But she-” Jeff began, yet the look on the woman’s face made his swallow his words. “… what happened?”

“Meg said they were up against the Ghostface. Put two and two together. She worked on his case in the real world,” Yui explained. A few faces looked to each other, formulating a realization that made their skins crawl. Meg rubbed her arms, her head on her knees as she watched Morgan’s torturous lament from afar. Tears welling up her eyes and cascading down like rain, her mouth stretched until her lips tore. Fingers gripped and tugged at her hair in despair, her knees hitting the dirt hard once they buckled beneath her swaying body. There, Morgan punched the ground and sobbed, left alone and unapproached.

They all felt sorry, but there was nothing they could do.

When some hours passed, the group slowly began to change out. Morgan had slipped into the confines of the forest, hidden from sight. The distant babel of the survivors chanting was a sound she desperately concentrated on. In this state, she couldn’t face the others, so she decided to cleave onto it for salvation. To save her from her mind, that was dangerously in one track. She could not stop thinking about him. She couldn’t save herself from the terrible, terrible pain. Fingers brushed the little flower in her hand. It appeared more like a bundle of weeds, all brown and void of moisture. It made her think of a foul potpourri. Lacking the usual wonderful scent, it instead gave off an earthly, moldy odor. Offerings for the Entity. Morgan shivered—it almost had won against her. Wherever she was going at first, it wasn’t the campfire. It felt like she was being dragged down into dark waters, feeling weightless while gradually losing her mind. Literally, losing herself, yet not dying.

How could she ever want that?

Scratching the wide of her head, Morgan leaned her body deeper into the trunk of the tree, her eyes staring out into dark forest where nothing awaited her. No killer, no salvation, no nothing. The woman sighed, “I’m fine.” From behind the tree she heard shuffling, only louder now that the source was discovered.

“I’m sorry if I’m bothering you,” Nancy responded. She could imagine the young teenager sitting against the other side of the tree in a similar manner. For someone so young, she was very considerate and wise. And to be approaching Morgan after possibly hearing of her breakdown, that was bravery in its own way.

“You’re not. I appreciate you,” Morgan responded, and her voice was dry from her lack of speaking. Still sore from the outburst, she rubbed her aching throat with a wince. “You weren’t here when I woke up. Did you survive the trial?” Morgan asked. Nancy made a positive noise. Finally, some good news for once. “That’s good,” Morgan said, the melancholy so obviously tainting her words. Nancy was careful as she spoke. 

“Meg told me,” she said, albeit a little apprehensively. “I’m sorry… I know there’s nothing I can do for the pain you’re feeling, but I’m here. We all are. Each and every one.”

The words settled in, the gratefulness drowning within the anger and sorrow that still resided in her small body. Morgan closed her eyes, surrounding herself in darkness. “I know,” she finally croaked, fingers rubbing her camera subconsciously. This time, she felt no lens. “I know, and that’s why I’m coming back soon. Just… in a while.”

“Okay…”

Silence was dangerous. Morgan wanted Nancy to keep talking to her, about anything. Anything at all to save her from herself, but she knew requesting the girl that would be putting her in a very uncomfortable spot. Since when did someone act as a pep talker for a person whose significant other was actually a killer? A smile cracked on Morgan’s face. She would have laughed if she were any crazier.

“There were so many signs. I should have noticed.”

“No, nobody would have noticed. I know you Morgan. You’re attentive. You think smart. He just…” Nancy took a pause to think. Her urgency in proving Morgan otherwise made the older woman’s chest feel a bit warm. “… he must have been very cunning. I don’t want to talk about anything that will hurt you more, though.”

“It’s alright,” Morgan reassured, her tone a bit dead in the hopes of covering up the intense hate. Nipping down at her dry lips, Morgan adjusted herself after feeling her legs grow numb and kicked them out to lay upon the dead leaves and moss. It was cold and moist. “Something happened there Nancy. The ground tore open. There was light everywhere… I think the Entity is changing its game.”

A small surprised noise came from the teenager, “How?”

“It took me, yet I wasn’t on a hook. After… Ghostface… shut the hatch, the ground lit up. I felt It Nancy. It was beneath the ground, everywhere, waiting. The air was thick with it I-I… I don’t know how to explain it. It was as if the world, that realm, was collapsing.”

“… that means things will only get harder,” Nancy sounded quiet, frightened.

“It means what we’re doing is working,” Morgan reassured. “It’s trying because it’s desperate.”

Though she couldn’t see it, Morgan could tell that Nancy had perked up from that. The young girl shuffled in the leaves and shrubs, tugging at twigs and perhaps bundling some offerings she had just noticed growing beside her. “We’ll adapt. We have to,” Nancy said firmly, her determination wavering if not just a little bit at the thought of a new challenge. “I’ll warn the others, alright? Just… come back whenever you’re able to. Remember, we have to hold onto our hope.”

The need to tell her the other thing lingering in her mind—that moment where she’d almost completely gave into the Entity—was on the tip of her tongue. She worried, though, that if that news got out then people would begin to give up. Morgan was known for being the most headstrong. To share that she herself almost submitted and was moments from being plunged into the Void would surely cause the weaker willed to fault.

“You’re a strong girl, Nancy.”

The girl hesitated prior to leaving, her steps fading with every bit of distance she made back toward the loud, mewling sounds of banter and chattering. At least they were still talking. At least they were being themselves. Morgan wished she had the journal, but Adam was entrusted it last to better study the bit of literature. And unfortunately, Morgan did not have the heart to face anyone after what she had done.

Soon, the Entity said, she would no longer have an anchor for her soul. She would submit and give it all her hope, because she would want to escape the torture. The reality. The truth. Soon she would become a husk to it and left in the void. She had to find a way out.

Soon.

Shaking her head, she kicked up some dirt and watched it rain back to the dark ground, her eyes narrow and puffy from all the crying she’d been doing, now suppressed by her obstinate nature. Morgan needed a distraction. Looking through her pictures, she a few of her fellow survivors. Kate playing her guitar with others singing, her old jogging trail, and… she began to delete _those_ pictures. Of him—of that psychopath—her heart thrumming fast in her chest like a strained chord on the verge of snapping. One by one they were lost forever until the very last one she had showed Meg. Of him and herself, looking away from the camera. She was biting down hard on her bottom lip—what she’d always do to hide a smile—while Danny pried himself into the picture with that goofy smile he used to wear. That other mask.

“… you’re wrong,” Morgan said, eyeing the picture, her finger hovering over the delete button. She didn’t press it. With a wretched sigh she drew her finger away, turning the camera off and plopping it bitterly on her lap. Wiping at her burning eyes, she breathed slower to clam herself down.

_You’re wrong. I’ve had a different favorite picture._

A fist punched the earth, sending shock waves of pain up her arm. She wondered if she broke something if it would heal once she was wisped into another trial. Soon, she’d end up in one. At one point, she would have to face him again. Where was he? Was he being punished? Was he to slowly lose himself too? Morgan wasn’t sure what to feel about that, but she knew better. Here, everybody was a victim. But shit, did she feel she was getting the brunt of it. Swallowing continuously, she fought against the sobs and pressed down on her eyes. She hated him. She hated, hated, hated him. Nothing but hate. Yet there was a pain in her heart that happened at the sight of his distraught expression. The look of betrayal and remorse in his eyes when he’d been tricked by the Entity. Fooled into thinking simple installments of sacrifices would give him the quality time he’d been craving. The man looked as if he’d realized then that he was not in control in anything, not even of her. That he didn’t even have his own thoughts. No matter how much she hated him, she couldn’t help but...

Her spine suddenly tingled. Glancing to the right, she saw a figure shifting from across the thicker parts of shrubs. Morgan didn’t move. Instinctually, she felt that holding still would make her invisible. How foolish that was. Still, she stared from the peripheral, her breath held and a sweat dripping from her brow. She knew it wasn’t one of her friends. Because that side, where it lingered, was beyond that invisible wall. That barrier that kept the cattle from the wolves’ domain. A staggered breath burned as it sucked in through her flared nostrils. As it leaned over from behind a tree trunk to peak, she was overwhelmed with fear. It wasn’t the Ghostface, yet she still couldn’t help but shrink at the sight of the white mask.

_Why is the Legion here?_

A good question indeed. They were all very aware of how close killers were, and yet not once had they approached them so obviously except for that one occasion. Whether it be some unknown guidelines or an inability to access, they weren’t certain, and nor was Baker. Stomach squelching from emptiness, it stirred and rattled as fresh adrenaline pumped through her veins. The Legion was silently watching her, the heavy breathing muffled by that strange mask. When they reached into their pocket, they held out an item she wasn’t expecting. It was her discarded camera lens. Just the sight of it alone made Morgan’s blood boil. Narrowing her eyes, she turned her gaze, not even noticing the killer had caught her full attention.

“Littering’s a crime.”

It was a man speaking. So, it was one of the ones she never ran into before. Morgan decided not to speak to him: half from fear, half from stubbornness. The killer was the needy type who liked to pester and pry. Almost like a child with a hot poker. There was no sound of reluctant in his voice as he spoke, a curl of enthusiasm with every dripping word. This man liked to terrorize, it seemed.

“Don’t you want it back?”

Looking at him again, she couldn’t find the strength in herself to move and run off. “You’re Frank, aren’t you?” The reaction he made simply confirmed it. He winced, breathing staggered, and as his grip on the lens tightened she could hear the glass shattering a bit. “No, I don’t want it back. Take it to the Ghostface. It was his.”

The killer tilted his head, “Weird, thought I saw you chucking it around like some angry teenager.”

Morgan wanted so much to bite back, but she instead bit her tongue. She wasn’t going to stoop so low. But the fear was biting at her sensitive skin. What purpose did the killer have to be there? Was it truly to satiate his own curiosity? Folding her fingers over her camera, she leaned her head back against the tree. It felt foolish to trust the wall that the Entity ran, but if the killers could come and please—and slaughter—as they deemed fit, then there would have been no escape. Morgan couldn’t imagine facing them all at once.

Would she give up then?

"Why are you really here?" she huffed, gazing at him beneath the curtain of her bangs. The killer only shrugged.

"Wanted to see what all the fuss is about. You don't seem too special to me, though," he insulted. The woman only rolled her eyes, continuing with her meaningless fiddling as the killer tossed the piece of hardware up and down in the air like some toy. “That guy’s been keeping to himself all pissed as hell. Told him shit doesn’t work out how you want it to here. Idiot went and thought he could go making deals. Dumbass.”

Morgan’s ears perched up, her eyes widening at the strange comment Frank made. The killer only snickered, toying with the damaged piece of camera attachment between his bandaged fingers, still subtly hidden from sight. “Hah! So he wasn’t lying, you really are an info whore.” It disturbed her to know that those choice of words weren’t the Ghostface’s own. Seething, she pressed her back firmer into the tree, tried to contain her emotions that she had let slip. Then Frank muttered beneath his breath, _that guy’s pretty fucked in the head._ It would be foolish for her to think that killers got along all buddy-buddy. If anything, they must have had such bitter feelings against each other. People broken intermixed with the lot that genuinely enjoyed destroying others. As she contemplated the various types of Morgan observed the man. He was young, wild, reckless. Someone who did stupid shit that only lead to terrible things, but perhaps not the worse of the type there. They were all bad, but in their own ways.

“You seem to know a lot about how the Entity works,” she suggested, to which Frank’s low breathing increased in decibel.

“Not as much as some of the others who’ve been here the longest.” He tilted his head tauntingly, and Morgan noticed a tattoo hidden beneath a patch of dirt on his throat. "Ya know, my other friends. Real charming bunch." His words oozed with sarcasm.

Morgan thought before asking, “And who’s been here the longest out of your _friends_?”

The leader of the Legion snickered slyly, “Information ain’t cheap, sweetheart.”

Shit, that was too much to jeopardize. “Think I’ll pass,” Morgan grumbled, confining to her thoughts for that false sense of safety. The killer made a disappointed gesture, lulling his head nonetheless to hide half of his gaze beneath the dead tree bark. Morgan could only imagine what his hidden hand was wielding. A knife, awaiting to try and slash at her if she were to grab her discarded camera lens from his cold, wrapped fingers. There was no doubt in her that he could hurt her. Not there. But it was dangerous to assume things, so Morgan considered the worse and pried her eyes from that disgraceful item. Around his wrist was a little bracelet, and though she couldn’t make it out well, she was certain she’d seen it before. Little ropes braided it between small white beads with letters written crudely across the red band. Customized for him, so the colors were different, but it was definitely akin to the one she’d seen before, wrapped gently around that poor girl’s small wrist.

“… Susie.”

Hearing that name made the young man freeze altogether. Beneath the chill of what she could only presume to be a glare, Morgan kept her dead gaze on him. A poker face was displayed, her eyes tired and lips straight and thin. The man made a sinister noise, threatening her with a dark growl. _“What about her?”_ Turning her attention back to the deeper end of the forest, Morgan sighed.

“She doesn’t deserve to be here.”

Silence. He looked like he wanted to argue but didn’t find the right words to counter her with. Or perhaps, rather, he agreed with her. “… as if some old broad knows anything about her.”

“Nobody,” Morgan said dryly, the firmness trickling from her words. “Nobody deserves to be here. Even if they killed someone.” She looked to him now, finding his lack of witty comments interesting. Had she hit a nerve? But the young man took a deep breath, his eyes casting down to stare at the dirt ground for a short while before looking at her again.

“You know what’s worse than a killer? A person who makes fake promises,” he cursed. Morgan had to think about what he was implying, recalling her trial with Susie. The girl must have shared what she said. Not once did Morgan blink.

“I didn’t know I sat in the midst of a genius. One who knows everything too. My mistake,” she remarked bitterly. The air became thick. With a final scoff the killer turned to leave, having his fill of fun and finding his intimidation efforts a waste of his time. As he took several steps—where all she could make out left were his shoulders and hood—she said under her breath, “It wasn’t fake…” The killer paused, his powerful sense of hearing pick up on the faint little murmur she made into the empty forest. Discretely, not intended for him to notice, but he did. Frank’s tension lessened, and after some few seconds of pondering her words, he wandered off into the darkness of the forest. After his departure, Morgan decided it was time to return to the campfire with her friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >.> What's gonna happen? <.<
> 
> The "why me" reveal! And aha, it's Morgan's fault that the End Game Collapse exists! This was very difficult to write. I feel my brain crying.
> 
> QOTC: Who's your favorite Legion? I've always liked Joey's cosmetic, and if I bought any of the skins he would probably be the one I chosoe since he blends in with most maps well. I also see him as the most intimidating looking, though I perceive him as not being anywhere near as harsh as Frank. How do you guys imagine their personalities?


	18. Stay the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A public breakdown forces Morgan to stay with Jed while they remain critical targets in the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was always meant to be one of those filler, sort of slow chapters. I was suffering from writers block while writing it, though. It's weird, because I have most of this story already planned, but it was hard putting this portion out to words. This chapter may seem a little off, but it could also just be me being paranoid. More likely, I really want to write the chapters ahead... since things get interesting. Hope everyone is doing well for Quarantine.

There used to be a feeling of relief whenever she walked down the long stretch of sidewalk in the western parts of Roseville. Apartments with cast iron fences and—surprise, surprise—rose bushes blossoming flowers of bright pink swayed in the light breeze. The thorns were petite yet dangerously reached to cling upon her sleeves. Morgan stayed a safe distance, feeling the cooling breeze of a nearing change in seasons. Outside she could hear cars moving and drains groaning and pedestrians chattering about the distasteful curfew. Behind her shades she could see the building of the Roseville Gazette main office, a modern piece of architecture that blended well with the rest of the more bustling part of the quaint city. It was as close to Orlando or Tallahassee than Roseville could get, with the angular structures and white with grey paint as clean and smooth as enamel. Inside she was greeted by the same front desk woman that was always there, who was preened from head to toe and made the perfect, youthful forefront to a paper company filled to the brim with sweaty office workers and fast paced reporters.

“Is that for Mr. Olsen?” she asked.

“It is. Can I take it to him?”

“Of course, Miss Yoon. He said to let you in whenever you’re here,” the lady responded. Morgan tried her best not to cringe. A sea of eyes looked upon her as if she were a creature from space, her fingers clenching the bag hard. Jed insured that no one would know of who she was—who she worked for—and they didn’t. Otherwise, they’d hound her down for information. No, they were only staring with suspicious glances. Perhaps attempting to take a gander at who she was and what her importance to their primary reporter and writer was.

Jed Olsen—the real money maker. The man with the magic fingers that could interview anything out of anyone. Apparently a real charmer with the ladies, too. For starters, the front desk worker—Natalie—had been treated out to dinner for her birthday by him just a few months before Morgan came into the picture. The same went for a couple other women in the office. Some were considering probably considering him to be a playboy, until he went and done it to a couple of the guys too. It crossed Morgan’s mind that he was a swinger when she first met him. Firstly, he was far too attractive for his own good. Secondly, he never shied away from any type of person. Even the bad type he would approach to ask a few questions to get on paper. For the split second that she appeared before the little window to his office, Jed beamed a smile so bright as he hooked the phone between his neck and shoulder in order to wave at her with his one good hand. Earning a few good looks from his fellow coworkers, Morgan gulped and quickened her pace, carefully trying her best not to stand out as she knocked on his office door firmly, the little parcel in her hands hidden from sight. But no, they all just kept having to stare.

Reporters were too fucking curious.

“WHY ARE YOU KNOCKING? JUST COME INSIDE!” he called out, and Morgan closed her eyes to let out a slow, seething breath. Yeah, if somebody wasn’t staring, they _definitely_ were now. But why wouldn’t they?

Jed Olsen—the real money maker—has been having that one uptight looking woman coming by to visit more often than not. At first, she could go by the interview excuse. But no, how often did someone as thorough as him need to interview the same damn person? Pushing the door open, she was quick to shutting it behind her. With an expression far from pleased, she listened to him finishing up some phone call to the editor nested somewhere else in the building while seating herself in the chair before his desk.

“Good! I’ll set an appointment for tomorrow with the fire chief. People love kids on trucks, right?” Jed laughed. With her arms crossed, she watched as Jed looked up at her to wink, sending a flurry of butterflies to consume the literal inner lining of her digestive track. Jed began writing frantically upon paper and pencil. “I wanna ask but I won’t. Yeah, just fax the availability to me, I have a _guest_ over… thanks.” The phone clacked as he placed it back into the receiver, a thick sigh rolling from his lips as he attempted to stretch his injured arm while it hung in a sling.

“The most _beautiful_ guest I will ever receive in my entire life,” he greeted, voice thick and smooth and charming.

Stunned by his features, she cleared her throat in but a short moment, tapping the bagged item on the floor with her foot. “Can it. I brought you lunch,” she huffed. “Since you’re still a child and refuse to take anything with your medication.” Of course, she had to add in her calloused notes. Too nice, and he might start _uping_ the ante.

Still, Jed smiled, expression cheesy as if he’d just melted in the inside. “Best. Wife. Ever.”

“I’m not your wife,” Morgan interjected harshly. “… and I’m not your girlfriend either.”

“Is that why you kissed me on my couch six days ago?”

Mouth agape, Morgan couldn’t quite come up with something crucial enough to floor his case. Jed only waggled his brows, watching as Morgan huffed and crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest yet again. Sinking back into the seat, she casted her glance to the side. “I was emotional. Remember, after everything is said and done,” she reminded him. Jed rose his arms defensively, expressing his understanding.

“How was your morning?” he changed the subject, finally standing to round his desk and pick up his lunch. Leaning his backside upon the polished wood, she assessed the contents eagerly like some ecstatic child as Morgan watched his movements. More alert than before, but a little sluggish still. Either from the pills, or the lack of food, she wasn’t sure. At the very least, the meal should help.

Morgan sighed, “Boring. Joseph still won’t let me work, and I’ve bribed every bit of coffee my stock could brew to the cops to try and let me off the hook.”

“Something tells me that didn’t work,” Jed mused, to which Morgan scoffed.

“Of course it didn’t. If I die then it’s their jobs on the line. Still worth a shot, though,” she remarked bitterly. Everywhere she went, they went too. Right now, they waited outside the lobby. Undercover officers, reading whatever magazines the Roseville Gazette had to entertain awaiting clients, perhaps being stared at suspiciously by Natalie and the rest of the bunch give how strong and hardened they looked. The suits didn’t help their case, either. Quickly glancing over her shoulder to see the prying, surprised expressions of some onlookers walking by with notepads and clipboards.

“As for the rest of my day, fine, until I walked into here.” Quickly shutting the blinds to his office, she concealed them in complete privacy before continuing. “Everyone here stares like hungry dogs. It pisses me off.” Jed smiled, lowering down a bit with his lips at the read. Shocked, Morgan placed her fingers upon his lips. “What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

Confused, he blinked. “Kissing you?”

“Didn’t you hear anything I’ve said?” she hissed

“Of course!” he reassured. Morgan didn’t buy it. Rolling her eyes, the man straightened himself before her, already fingering at the vegetables into his hungry mouth. Seeing the uncomfortable look on her face drew a frown from him. “C’mon Morgan, nobody’s watching right?”

“That’s because I closed the curtains, idiot.”

Jed snickered, “Yeah… sort of makes us look suspicious, huh?” Morgan thought about what he said, her eyes widening in realization. What was worse, being stared by overly curious onlookers, or being hidden from their sights, only to have them thinking the wrong thing? Either way they probably were going to assume many presumptuous things, to which Morgan groaned and sunk into her chair some more. Carrots crunched between porcelain white teeth, the grin and playful bounce of his eyebrows tickling her cheeks a shade of pink as he stared amused at her defeated state. Jed hummed, “Ignore ‘em! They’re just jealous.”

“Of what?” she grimaced.

“That they don’t have their own office—and also that they don’t have a lovely lady sitting with them in said office. I’m a lucky guy, arm sling and all!”

At least he was still kicking. Chattering an awful lot, too. Gazing at his injured arm, she wondered if it hurt him to move. Typing was a hassle, she knew, because seeing him doing everything with one hand seemed exhausting enough. As Jed continued on with his meal, talking a storm about today’s schedule and some terrible interview coming up regarding an old man’s 100th birthday—he wasn’t ready for the long, tiresome stories he apparently had in store—Morgan recalled the phone call and felt her body shiver beneath the cold air conditioning. That voice was sickeningly sinister, haunting her dreams. Every morning she’d wake up in a fever sweat, terrorized by nightmares of him breaking inside of her house and chasing her. Slicing at her skin while reciting what he’d done to Jed in her ear, and with every scream no words came out. As she’d open her eyes to see it was still nighttime, she’d find herself too frightened to look to her side. What if he was there, sitting in the dark, watching her sleep? But every time she’d look thus far, there’d been nothing but darkness and an empty room.

“-and he just had to set me up with this interview which, you know, I’m fine with and all. But the guy apparently has a knack for talking up a storm and… Morgan? You okay?”

The woman blinked once. Twice. Everything was blurry from her dry eyes. Clambering down on reality felt like a feat in itself. As Jed rubbed her forearm with his good hand, he knelt down before her and looked up at her face to see the tired bags hanging.

“Did **he** call again?”

“No,” Morgan cleared her throat, leaning forward a bit until she felt the soft hairs of his widows peak touching her forehead slightly. It tickled, trailing across her skin like the sweat that beaded down her back each morning before getting out of bed. Clearly, the man was concerned, and he spoke with a tone so soft it strained her ears to pick up.

“You know, the offer to stay with me is always open,” he said so quietly that not even the lone fly trapped in his office could pick up on the conversation. A small smile was on her face, wryly put into place. With a sigh she lolled her head to the side, putting a hand against his face and nudging him back just a smidgen for being so close.

“I know,” she whispered back, standing before him. Slipping her purse back onto her shoulder, she brushed her hair behind her ear. “I’m heading to the station to see how the case is going.”

The man frowned at her words, “Maybe that isn’t the best thing for you to be doing right now?”

“I refuse to sit around lollygagging while there’s a killer out on the loose.”

Fingers pressed against her lips, silencing her. He grinned, “How about a nice bubble bath? Girls like those. Lavender soaps, a tall glass of pinot noir, me cooking dinner out in the kitchen for when you come out in your favorite bathrobe I got for you in Victoria Secret during our first anniversary…”

Already she felt exasperated. Leaning forward, her lips pursed as she stared at his eyes unyieldingly. Jed smelt her breath, like mint gum used to cover up some morning coffee. The man gulped at the proximity, though not in the fearful way that she might have hoped for. A single word slithered from between her lips.

_“Lolly… gagging.”_

And it sounded smooth, a little too sultry. With a shiver of his back, Jed smiled sloppily when she tugged at his tie, straightening out the flared edges of the knot for him. It made her think of her first time being there. “I don’t want to sit around. I’m not that kind of person to let bastards get away with murder.” Oh, he knew that. Too many times did she make that painfully obvious. The woman just didn’t know how to relax, liven up, take a fresh breath of air. Knowing damn well he couldn’t change that about her, he still looked down at her fondly with a smile far too accepting for her to deserve receiving. Skin laminated with goosebumps, she patted his chest softly and was about to pull away. Jed’s hand pressed over hers, and it was warm and oddly calloused.

“Kiss me?” he asked playfully. Morgan shook her head, making Jed pout. “C’mon? Once a day? A week? It kills me not being able to be romantic like that.”

“It’s just kissing. You’re acting touch starved.”

“Physical attention is one of my favorite love languages!” he announced rather proudly.

Absentmindedly she bit her lips, contemplating whether or not she should. “… why on earth do I let you do this to me?” she asked, feeling the hot touch of his breath fanning across her lips already. A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest that made her heart skip. As Jed kissed her, she felt her mind swirling in a hazy spell that nearly knocked her completely off her stubborn feet. Fingers buried into her locks, gracing her scalp. Morgan felt the stubble of his chin—all rough and prickly—and it seized her nerves in a sensitive frenzy. A muffled hum escaped him as he tilted his head, deepening it, soaked her in an attention she’d never felt before. It was extremely overwhelming, but oddly enough she found it more exciting than agitating. While wondering how long a kiss could possibly last, the door to his office suddenly opened.

“Jed, you have-oh! I am so, **so** sorry!”

It was Natalie, dropping a small stack of papers at the sight of them. Morgan didn’t even realize how close she was against him. How she’d began to sweat beneath her clothes at how warm it was getting. Riddled with embarrassment, Morgan brushed back her hair and breathed unevenly, quickly shouldering her bag before bending over and gathering some of the papers for the woman. A little curtly did she shove them into her hands again, uneven and bent at the edges.

“Excuse me,” Morgan muttered, but then glanced over her should with a fiery glare. The man was smiling painfully big, captured in some drunken stupor that always seemed to happen whenever they had but a hair moment of intimacy. “Take your damn meds,” she said. No, threatened. The tone of her voice alone brought him back to reality.

“Ah, of course!”

And with that she was gone, treading through the sea of prying eyes as she practically rushed out the office. Surely, she’d be the talk of the day for the remainders of their miserable little shifts.

***

There was a time when Morgan used to frequent this coffee shop. It was the first place she’d ever stop to once moving into Roseville, struggling with the paper directions whilst attempting to find the station that was hidden deep in the corner of a bustling street. The barista offered her clearer directions—and a hot green tea to go—perhaps from how disheveled and troubled she looked. Sure enough, Morgan arrived at orientation ten minutes late, leaving the lead director of homicide rather irritated. There were several occasions afterwards where she’d bring in a couple coffees from the very same hole-in-the-wall café for them. Coffee was only ever the way to a busy man’s heart when it was made well and to their tastes. Then they thought she was lucky, but she was rather given a helpful hint by one of their best detectives.

Joseph Fields always craved a medium roast with a dash of Irish crème and two spoons of sugar.

Prior to entering the police station, she popped open a small bottle of whiskey in her car and poured a fair amount into the aromatic beverage. Upon entering the station, she swiped her identification card and entered the office area. Many familiar faces greeted her, asking how she was holding up. Admittedly, she couldn’t recall some the names of the newer officers.

Morgan didn’t even bother knocking. The man always knew who it was, since not just anybody dared to barge into his quarters while he was working. Still, she’d been out of the job for some time, so he couldn’t help but spin around with wide eyes at such a sudden interruption. Once he spotted the culprit, Joseph sighed and returned to his call. A coffee was handed to him, and he took it with a sparkle in his eyes, mouthing a short _thank you._

“Yes, the ones from California. Fax them to me will you? Mhmm… yeah, everything. Thanks.”

Greatly did he sigh, his thick finger itching behind his ear as he took a swig of the drink without a second thought. Unsuspecting taste buds picked up on a familiar flavor. “… is there whiskey in this?” he asked. Responded with a blank stare, the man grinned, glancing around the office just in case, and took another drink. This time greedily. “Shit, I needed this.” Already he was halfway down, giving Morgan a chance to look around his office. A quick glance to his desk and she spotted print outs of some newspaper articles.

“What’s that all about?” she inquired. There was an unimpressed look on her face, her eyes boring into his as he wiped his fingers upon his grey pants thoughtfully. His office was a literal mess, and it showed how chaotic of a state the station was in. So many ideas and thoughts swarmed his brain all at once as he had to decipher her question.

“Finished cases. Mostly cold. What we’re dealing with is somebody with experience. I wanted to try and see if I could cross examine crimes of similar natures from the last few years. Get some sort of lead.”

“These don’t look local.”

“They aren’t,” he said, but then he snapped his fingers just as his fax machine began to whirl. Papers were printing out—photocopies of some type of files that were perhaps scanned for filing purposes. Viewing over them, the detective reviewed them, that eager and expectant look twisting into total disappointment. It appeared whatever case he was looking into had been a dead end, too. Morgan reached forward the touch the corner of a small stack of papers. Curiously she flipped them over. They were probable cause affidavits for a large list of individuals across the states: Thomas Wiener, Victor Biden, Sarah Hendrickson, Danny Johnson… possible suspects where police requested arrest warrants for them. With the current compiled list, Morgan couldn't quite tell what became of them. 

“Any case stood out to you?” she inquired. Another paper was in his hands, the machine still spewing out black and white copies of seemingly meaningless documents. Photographs of macabre scenes of crime were lined up. Old news clippings and a release warrant, forms describing terrible acts of mindless violence and coroner notes on the side. Notable, none of them corresponded. Rather, it was a myriad of cases all spewed across his desk, intermingling, in a chaos that only Joseph could comprehend. Morgan skimmed the documentations as Joseph began spilling his thoughts out into the open.

“From random dead people on the streets to high schoolers killing their friends for sport.”

“Common themes,” Morgan grumbled with disinterest, but a picture was slapped in front of her. Morgan’s eyes opened wide with shock.

It was an interview log. Feeling her stomach clench, she didn’t notice Joseph look over her with concern.

“Think you can handle it, Morgan?”

“… yeah.” There was a craving to know more, whether she was ready for it or not. Joseph sighed, leaning back on his creaking chair that had been earning too much of his attention for the last few months.

_ The Interview of Franklin Lundberg _

_The interview of Franklin Lundberg, taken by Detective Lechance, on July 13, 1991, beginning at 16:20 hours, in the Interview room at the Philadelphia Police Department in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania._

_Q So we’re going to talk about what you said at the bar._

_A Okay. Do I say it now?_

_Q Let me adjust my chair first. Okay, no, I’ll be asking questions. Just answer accordingly._

_A Okay._

_Q Can you tell me what you saw two nights ago when walking home from the Brass Tap Pub._

_A I was drinking, but I know I saw it. Someone following me. Wearing all dark clothes. I only noticed because I saw a flash of light from the corner of my eye, and when I turned to see what it was, I saw a person dressed head to toe hiding in an alleyway._

_Q What else about them stood out to you?_

_A (Inaudible.)_

_Q A white mask?_

_A Yes, a white mask._

_Q Just a blank, white mask?_

_A Long and white, like a stretched-out ghost._

Morgan closed her eyes. It was pages of an interview, but she didn’t have the energy to finish it. Placing it down, she let out a shivering breath and cracked her knuckles with a tight fist. “Have you called the station?”

“I did, even got a chance to speak with Lechance. Franklin Lundberg is dead, and the case was abandoned.” He rubbed his peppered jaw, exhaustion tinging his heavy-lidded eyes. Joseph took another much-needed sip of coffee.

“It’s him, I know it is,” Morgan urged, a heat in her voice that permeated her words. Joseph rose his hand to calm her.

“There’s a chance it is. I don’t doubt it, but the masks are common Morgan. Gotta look into more before I start pulling strings.”

The papers dropped with a thud, Morgan’s frustration leaking out as her eyes fixed on some other stray files oddly out of place. If it weren’t for her familiarity with it all then they would have blended in with the rest of the bunch. “And what about these cold cases?” There was serious doubt that they all had something to do with Roseville’s current antagonist, but one didn’t know until they tried to connect the dots. Joseph was staring out into his computer screen, his hand clamped over his mouth as he allowed Morgan the chance to peruse the selection. It felt as if she were looking into job applications, attempting to see who qualified in fitting the profile. Names upon names of eyewitnesses and victims. Pictures of blurry, disembodied looking figures stalking dark streets and empty complexes. Bodies carved into like honeyed hams, spilling over with dark fluid that buddle beneath them. Interviews transcribed that were more than a pound each—Morgan noticed a few typos, and she cringed at the frantic dialogue.

“… one of them is interesting. A guy in Utah claimed he saw a person in black with a long white mask, leaving an apartment complex. The victim was found the same night,” the detective finally spoke. Morgan looked over at him, her brows pinched in the center at the mentioning of such a figure.

“And…?”

Joseph shrugged, “Nothing came of it. The killings stopped after that, and there wasn’t enough evidence to go by.” Turning his attention to her, he stared with eyes weighed with a burden that no human should have to bear. “If I suppose this guy has traveled between murder strings, then that can only entail that he’s one experienced son of a bitch. We only have a photograph of him because he let it happen. So, how do you catch someone perfect?”

“Nobody’s perfect,” Morgan interjected.

Joseph stared at the computer screen again, eyes cultivating an untapped rage. “Exactly.”

A gulp. Throat tight, she took slow breaths to kill the panic steaming from her stomach. Already did she know that but hearing it from the lead detective of the case made it sink in such a way that there was no possible way of denying it. The Ghostface was more than some psychotic killer. No, he was a professional. Like a street thug versus a hitman, one simply could not compare to the other. Never did Morgan want a killer to live up to promises. Surely, this one would go beyond that. Sucking the old coffee flavor from her tongue, Morgan grinded her teeth and placed the large pile back onto the corner of his desk.

“The call to your house was made from another disposable cell,” Joseph said.

“I figured as much,” she grimaced, burying her hands into her pockets to try and quell the rage and fear locking up her fingers. “Thorough… fucking bastard.”

“He hasn’t called in a while,” he contemplated.

“No, he hasn’t. But I doubt the guards are scaring him off,” she hissed.

While he thought to himself, Morgan took the liberty to check her pinging pager. It was from Jed, sending yet another message today. _Am I a great kisser or what?_ Scoffing, she pocketed the instrument, not finding the energy in herself to reply. Joseph was gathering up the scattered paperwork now as he spoke.

“What’s the name of the bar you frequent?” Joseph asked. Finding the question strange, Morgan locked eyes with him, her brow raised.

“Walleyes. It’s in Northern Roseville. I haven’t been there in a while,” she explained.

With the way Joseph looked at her, she’d suspect that he discovered some compelling evidence. There was a knot deep in her belly that made her want to vomit. “What?” she questioned eagerly. “What is it?”

“All our victims had credit charges from Walleyes.”

At first, Morgan didn’t know what to say. But then it all came together, painfully woven into place. A correlation. A relation between victims that otherwise had nothing to do with each other. The bar was a little family business. A small little hole in the wall, fairly popular but not enough for the whole town to go to. Morgan recalled the dark bar, with its warm lights and amber hue. The soft music playing in the background. But Morgan went there to load up on enough liquor to get her mind fuzzy, not drunk. She’d still drive home, having honed her skilled in managing just enough to get home during the disorderly conduct. Yet she couldn’t recall any particular faces. Any strange people.

“He steaked out the bar to find people to kill, Morgan.” Joseph wasn’t the sort of person to assume, either, which told her how sure he was of his statement. Those poor, dead people were all patrons minding their own business, unknowingly sealing their fates.

So was Morgan, during one of the many times she sat there by herself, staring at the old rock memorabilia while a killer watched her back with his own twisted fantasies.

“Why hasn’t he killed me yet?” she asked.

“Maybe he figured you’re working on the case. That makes you different. A direct connection to the police department.”

The woman closed her eyes when the pressure of an oncoming panic started to crawl up her throat. She took deep, slow breaths. It couldn’t be happening. Of all the people to spot, he had to spot _her_. “I know you’re scared,” Joseph’s words sounded so far away. A clammy feeling left her fingers sticky as she shuffled in place, feeling small beneath the man’s ever knowing gaze. “You should stay with him. Olsen’s house is in the suburbs, and his property is just a fraction compared to your four acres. If something were to happen, all the noise should attract enough attention from the neighbors. Plus, there are cops posted all over the place.”

“I didn’t see it stopping the murder last night,” she said under her breath, but the officer’s hound like ears picked up on it.

“That doesn’t mean it’s not the safer thing to do.”

Lips pressed into a thin line. Giving a final goodbye, Morgan left the station. Always parking a well way off from the station, Morgan strolled down the sidewalk with stiff posture. Rigidly she kneaded her fingers within her pockets, feeling conflicted with herself as her mind struggled to make a proper decision. Still, she so stubbornly wanted to stay at her home. To sit in her office in the dark waiting, with a gun in her hand and phone on her lap. Waiting for him to come in, so she could finally kill him. Simultaneously, she wanted to be safe in bed, sleeping, and not having to worry so much because somebody else would be looking out. Because maybe Joseph had a point. _Of course he has a point, he’s a fucking cop._ There were more patrolmen out in the city unlike where Morgan lived. In the boonies, miles away from the nearest grocery store. Gas station. Hospital. Where the trees were in abundance, more than humans themselves, and where she could catch a peak of an actual cougar or coyote from afar. Soaking in the warmth from the sun, Morgan was about to approach an intersection when a loud, obnoxious ringing of a payphone made her jump. Right beside her, too. Many times children memorized the numbers posted on them to prank call passerby, but that wasn’t the initial thought crossing Morgan’s mind. There, standing alone in the sidewalk in the afternoon, with the sun blaring down at her and the breeze of upcoming fall whipping her in the face, Morgan stared at the payphone posted just outside the standing shops and was struck with unadulterated fear. She watched it, listened to that blaring ring that only an outdoor phone seemed to possess. For roughly ten seconds it kept on ringing until finally the noise ceased altogether. Morgan’s breathing hitched, her eyes burning as she continued on, still watching it as if it were some creature ready to tear its post from the ground to pursue her.

_It’s nothing, it’s nothing, it’s… nothing._

Morgan continued walking, passing the intersection, a bit more speed behind her step. She wanted to jump into her car and get home as quickly as possible. Another payphone littered in old stickers was nestled by a bicycle rack.

Right when Morgan reached its proximity, it began to ring as well.

There, she just knew who it was. Every fiber of her being told her that answering would have been foolish. Renouncing their very existence—in fact, the very existence of any ringing telephone—would have been the wisest approach. She had a pager to be reached by.

The five second mark.

Morgan stared as the payphone as if it were a wanted criminal. As soon as she was about to walk away, she looked up and around to see some people going about their business. Cars were waiting for the light to turn green, a public bus was picking up pedestrians that have been waiting for an unknown amount of time. A man was locking his bike onto a fire hydrant across the street, perhaps to quickly stop within the pharmacy before someone ticketed him for the act. Anxiously rubbing her lips, Morgan closed the distance between the payphone and herself before answering abruptly.

“Hello?” she answered, feeling the word come out harsh and bitterly.

There was a low, awfully familiar breath.

**_“And here I thought you were going to ignore me. It seems nobody can resist a mysteriously ringing payphone…”_ **

She knew it. Dammit, she just fucking knew it would happen, and yet she went and answered. Her first instinct was to hang up and call the police station. Muscles shook, her bones locked into place. Absolutely frozen over, she spun around her heel and scanned the bustling street for somebody on a phone. Anybody, because if he was calling payphones crossing her path, that could only mean that he was there.

Watching her.

“Where are you?” she asked, throat tight as the words stiffly escaped her quivering lips. Morgan could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, the handle of the plastic phone popping against the pressure of her extreme grip. Morgan began to sweat.

 ** _“Admiring,”_** he said nonchalantly. **_“From a distance… you look so good in those jeans, Morgan. You have a nice sway to your hips when you walk… makes me excited.”_**

Every word he spoke disgusted her. Feeling naked in the public, she pressed her back against the payphone stand and studied every walking man and woman. Some on their phones whose lips moved when the killer wasn’t talking, but that could have been an act. Right? A cover up. Others were chatting away in cars, already driving off. “Is it true?” she asked. “That you’ve been picking out people from bars?”

A chuckle echoed in her ear, **_“What genius came up with that? That’s only some of the time.”_**

“And me? When did you decide to start fucking with me? When you saw me taking shots at a bar at 2 AM?”

When no answer came, she growled into the receiver, feeling she had caught him red handed. “You’re not as clever as you think, you psycho. Leave me the fuck alone,” she demanded.

**_“And you know what happens when I do that? Somebody else gets to have my attention, and I know you’re the jealous type.”_ **

Thick breaths seethed from her curled lips, “You’re hiding. What are you, some kind of coward?”

**_“No, I’m an opportunist. Or maybe I’m just bored, and I saw you walking down the street while on my merry way and wanted to have a chat.”_ **

“Come here,” she urged. “Why don’t you come to me right now… can have a nice chat on this bench.”

The Ghostface thought, a quirky hum reverberating from the phone straight into her ear. It made her back shiver, **_“I don’t think it’s the right time yet, you know? I’d rather it be in private… certain things can’t be done with onlookers, you know? I mean, unless it’s your kink. I’m in no position to judge.”_**

Scream. She wanted to scream, to see if she could hear herself on the other end of the line, but there was so much noise. Noise, noise, and more city noise that might have drowned her out, and yet she couldn’t hear it from his end. Was he in a building? In one of the coffee shops? In a conveniently quiet car on his cellphone?

**_“Dreamed about you the other day. Dreamed about kissing you… having you say my name for me. Scared out of your mind with my knife against your throat.”_ **

“Only in your dreams,” she seethed.

**_“Awe c’mon Morgy. Say my name once for me? It’s been days… I’m having a relapse here. You’ve seen the news lately, haven’t you?”_ **

Gripping the cord of the phone, she resisted the urge to yank it from the box. “Give me one good fucking reason why I should give you _anything_?” A low, dangerous chuckle, evolving into something a little uncontrollable but clearly confined. Good, that meant he was perhaps somewhere public. Somewhere where she could catch him in the act. Get a glimpse of who he really was. Eyes scanned the street intensely, desperately for anyone standing out. He groaned soothingly into her ear, making her body shiver frightfully.

**_“You’ve already given me so much, like that show last night. I love watching you taking showers.”_ **

“Lying will get you nowhere,” she growled, tears already rolling from her eyes. The man paused for a few moments, letting her soak in the silence of her own heated rage. Then he said something slowly.

**_“Vanilla… orange… suits you.”_ **

She winced. Vanilla orange?

With shaken fingers she took a strand of her hair between her fingers. There was a lingering scent from her shampoo last night.

… vanilla orange.

Ghostface cackled. The sound pierced through her eardrums and sent a wave of shock through her body. Saying nothing, Morgan dropped the phone, feeling a million tiny bugs crawling across the span of her skin. Ears rung a constant pitch as she watched the countless people passing by with cellphones in their hands.

_Which one…!_

She had to find him.

Without a second thought she abruptly crossed the street, leaving the payphone to dangle as the cackling of the Ghostface grew quieter and quieter with every bit of distance made. Ignoring the blaring horns of cars, she barely dodged a screeching vehicle. A man was on his phone, seated on a public bench with his eyes fixed on her suspiciously. Morgan approached him with feverish speed, reaching for his hand and viciously yanking his phone from his grasp. “What the hell lady?” he cried out, watching as she pressed the phone into her ear. She heard the voice of a woman rambling on about something.

_“And then I… hello? Curt?”_

Frustrated, she threw the phone back onto his lap, his grubby fingers barely catching it. Finding another suspicious individual walking down the line of window shops, she spotted his phone in hand and pursued him. Tugging his collar, he resisted against her with a startled noise. “Give me your phone,” she demanded, pulling the device to her ear. A normal phone call. Another normal person. Morgan’s heart raced. The next person was stumbling back as she shoved them to the wall and pried their phone from their sweaty hands. There was a normal conversation on that line, too. “Fuck!” Morgan glared around her, bombarded by defensive strangers rattled by her strangeness.

“The hell is wrong with you lady?”

“Is she trying to steal?”

“She fucking scratched me!”

Too many voices, yet none of them sounding like _him_. “Which one of you?” she babbled like a madman. Until her voice raised an octave. Somewhere he was watching her frantic form, entertained. _Laughing_. Morgan shoved a larger man back with tears stinging her eyes. “Which one of you is him?!” Morgan desperately weaved through the building crowd, swarmed by a dozen faces. A hundred strangers. A million possibilities.

**“Which one of you is Ghostface?!”**

***

Six.

Hues of pink, purple, and orange crossed the sky like strokes of acrylic. Colors that made the world sleep, but she didn’t feel remotely tired.

Six. From the start of their drive from the police station, Morgan only counted six trees. It was despairing to say the least. Forests calmed her, brought her peace. When troubled, she’d go for a walk and sit along the base of a tree where no ants built a nest. She could remain in such a place for hours, with her camera in hand at the ready in case she saw something worth picturing. Six trees, and not one secluded, but rather planted in the middle of some park or street divider. It was painfully city-like in the suburbs. She wanted to go home, but she was scared. Also, not allowed to. Joseph glanced at her silent form staring out the window, her hands still shaken from the events prior to the police arrive in the shopping district just up the road.

“We’re here,” he commented, pulling up on the barren front yard of a very familiar, quaint little house. Admittedly, she was nervous. Almost mirror the feelings of a teenager being brought home after caught underage drinking in a bar. With the door opened for her, she didn’t even notice Jed already waiting outside his front porch, sporting some grey sweatpants and plain shirt while sitting on a wicker chair. Straight to his feet, he quickly approached the disturbingly quiet Morgan and pulled her into a tight embrace. Instantly, she sank into his body and inhaled his scent. Still a little sweaty from work. He hadn’t showered yet.

“Thanks for answering my call,” Joseph said to him.

“Of course. Is she…”

With a shake of his head, she could feel Jed’s body relax considerably. “Nobody was seriously hurt. Luckily, she just caused a public disturbance. She’d probably be safer in the jailhouse but…” The sentence didn’t need to be finished. Giving his final goodnights, Joseph had left to return to his car while Jed escorted a very sluggish Morgan into his home. The front door sealed shut behind her.

_Never thought I’d actually being staying here._

Morgan told herself that the situation called for massive changes. She also told herself this wasn’t entirely the worst-case scenario. As she continually reassured to herself, she could hear the three locks click, and then the alarm set afterwards. Rubbing her eyes, she stalked into his living room after removing her shoes. Soft carpeting filled the spaces between her toes. She was about ready to collapse, but she well knew sleep would be far from her.

Feeling his touch on the small of her back, she looked up to see his eyes soaked with concern. “Everything alright?” he asked, gentle with his touch as he stroked the side of her head. There on his forearm was a stich long and healing, much like the one upon his abdomen.

“You should be wearing a sling,” she commented.

“It kind of gets itchy,” he admitted, shrinking beneath her demeaning stare. Then his eyes lit up, like a light bulb flashed in his noggin. “Okay,” Jed rubbed her shoulders. “Stay right here, I’ll be back alright?”

Morgan watched after his fleeing form, “Go put on your damn sling.”

Having stalked down the hallway, perhaps to shower or something, Morgan rubbed the ache in her chest and perused the small bit of trinkets lining the few shelves. Little mementoes from here and there, perhaps items with long histories behind them that she couldn’t begin to imagine. The woman had been in his house enough times to get a feel for everything there. Mostly pictures of countless faces. Families and friends, with the majority absent of his presence in the photo. Many were taken when he was in school, he had told her a month ago. Any pictures of him were from childhood. She could tell by the dimples and the way he smiled.

To be honest, he sort of looked creepy as a kid wearing that smile.

Still, he was cute looking. Morgan could feel the tickle of the Ghostface’s voice in her ear, and she placed her fingers over her face to rub at the old tear trails. They were sticky, and she whimpered against her palms. Everything happened as of late was taking a toll on her. Now, she was stuck in a house, feeling like an absolute outsider. When Jed returned, it was with a towel in hand. She glanced at him with a worn face. Of course, he had no sling on, and she doubted he’d wear it while at home.

“Ready?” he asked.

Following him to the bathroom, she was bombarded by the scent of lavender wafting through the air. A comfortable heat emanated from the bathroom, surrounding her aching flesh. Peeling her eyes open, she saw the tub prepared and casted the man a confused glance. Jed smiled sheepishly down at her.

“Why the long face? Everyone loves these!”

The image of Jed lounging in a bath with thick, foamy bubbles crossed her mind. Frankly, it wasn’t a bad thought, but she shook it from her thoughts, nonetheless. Feet shuffled beneath her, a pang of guilt quaking in her bones as the man began to massage her shoulders. “Get undressed, get some privacy with a nice bath… oh! I almost forgot! You’re hopping in that tub, you hear me?” And then he was gone, having disappeared down the hallway with a silly jog. In the distance, she could hear him digging through his refrigerator. Admittedly, Morgan wasn’t the bubble bath type. Still, she approached the tub and knelt down, feeling that the bounce of the bubbles against the flat of her palm was satisfying. With the door closed enough, Morgan stripped from her clothing and brushed her hair back. First, the water wrapped around her ankles, hot but not scalding. Sinking into the delicious heat, she watched as her thin body was swallowed by a mound of bubbles. Any nudity below her shoulders was completely concealed. Nose wrinkled, she felt the ticklish popping of suds upon her skin, the lingering scent of soft flowers soothing her shaken psyche by a thread. A slow breath slipped from her lips. Morgan closed her eyes, letting her neck lean back.

 _Crap… this actually feels nice,_ she thought. Well aware it would have been better, had her life not been tragically subjected to a deranged murderer, it made the experience begrudgingly somber. As the bathroom door opened abruptly, she saw Jed take a step back to cast his glance away.

“Oh! You’re already in!”

Morgan stared at him blankly, “You told me to hop in, didn’t you?” Clothes were discarded upon the floor. Careful not the trample over them, he slowly approached, and Morgan didn’t feel as naked as she should have. However curious he might have been, no eyes could permeate through the impenetrable wall of scented bubbles. Morgan chuckled secretly—his peepshow being ruined was by his own damn doing. With a gulp, Jed revealed whatever it was hidden behind his back.

“Ta dah!”

A can of beer, cold and still sealed in his hands. Morgan stared at it with a quirked brow. Shoulders drooped in defeat as he sat on the edge of the tub, his fingers latching on the little tab to crack it open. “Yeah… it’s not that pinot noir I promised you, but it’s something to ease the nerves.” With a hopeful grin he held it out to her. Morgan stared at his face, eyes heavy and lips dangerously thin.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

Jed groaned, “I’m fiiiine. See?” Raising his shirt, he showed her the scar lining his fit abdomen, missing his belly button—and most internal organs—but just a hair. “Let a guy spoil the woman he loves, alright?” he asked. Morgan choked on her words.

_Don’t smile, don’t smile, don’t smile._

The last time she had a beer was at Walleyes. Raising her hand, her soaking fingers were laced with bubbles as she wrapped them around the freezing can. No matter how hard she fought, she couldn’t resist a weak small smile forming on her lips, “Thank you.” Brightened by this, Jed laced his fingers together and remained there, unmoving for a few seconds. Morgan cleared her throat. “Jed?” she asked as she rose her leg out of the water. Jed watched the act, a shiver riding up his back. He stuttered.

“Y-Yes?”

“You can leave now.”

Her words were processing in his brain. Startled, he jumped to his feet, patting a wet spot on his backside as he went for the door. “Uh, yeah! Of course! I’ll make dinner in the meantime. Hope you like Mexican food.”

_Shit._

She did, very much. Soft bubbles popping constantly like white noise drowned the total silence leading up to Jed’s dinner preparations. The bathroom was painted a light baby blue, with white floor tiles and a tub of light grey in hue. The toilet and sink matched, and though everything were painfully plain, it didn’t strike the fact that it was clear. Sparkling, actually, like something from a public setup from a furniture store. Stroking her finger along the wall, Morgan felt the grout between the tiles and found no dust on the pad of her finger. The mirrors were fogging up, making the room like a small sauna. Morgan breathed in slowly, taking a sip of the cold beer. Cheap, but satisfying. She let herself moan comfortably in the water, the ends of her hair sticking to her humid skin.

**_Vanilla orange suits you._ **

“Stop it,” she seethed, cupping the water between her fingers and splashing her face. Then Morgan took a big swig of her beer. Already she felt the nice buzz melting her brain. Usually, she wouldn’t drink while paranoid, but she felt safe. No, she was safe. Here, there was nothing to worry about but **_his_** voice haunting her throughout the night. With a glob of foam in her hand, Morgan absentmindedly plopped it upon her head and let it sit there. She felt like a child, but her mind roamed once again to the thought of Jed lounging in a tub full of bubbles.

Maybe bubble baths weren’t so bad.

Once the smell of food lingered in the air, Morgan decided to get out and dry up. It was then that she realized the man neglected to leave her a change of clothes. With a sour expression, Morgan left the tub to drain and glanced cautiously out the door. She could see Jed working with a cast iron skillet, skillfully letting some peppers fry in spices and butter while another was sizzling with some sort of meat. With quiet footsteps, she stalked down to his bedroom, guarded only by the darkness and the towel. Entering, she saw a stain on the carpeted ground and paused. This was where she’d found him, lying on the ground on the verge of death. All because of her.

**_The apple of his eye accusing him as some sadistic secret killer. Tell me… how’s he doing?_ **

Tearing her eyes from the blood stain, she began searching through his dresser for something to wear. Socks, underwear—she felt a little perverted finding those—and, oh, there’s a nice black t-shirt. Morgan slipped that on, watching as the end stopped a little bit passed her upper thigh. Putting on dirty underwear was a pet peeve of her, and without a pair the length definitely wasn’t long enough to properly cover her up. Waistbands to wide for her, and his jeans would surely make her trip. Morgan glanced at his underwear drawer a second time and groaned.

Slick, sharpening noises rung from the kitchen. Holding the knife up toward the light, Jed observed the edge of the blade and wiped it clean with his thumb. The steak on the cutting board was seasoned and medium rare. Sliding his knife across it, it cut like butter. Feeling eyes on him, he subconsciously glanced up to see Morgan leaning against the entry way. He paused.

“… are you wearing my clothes?”

The way the shirt hung over her shoulder should have been enough evidence for it. Arms crossed, she watched his eyes trail down to her hips.

“… are you wearing my _boxers_?”

“I had nothing else,” she droned. Jed felt his lips pull up into a grin.

“Does this mean I get to dedicate a part of my dresser to you from now on?”

Morgan casted his teasing expression a glare. Clenching her jaw, she pressed her legs together a little self-consciously, feeling a draft enter his baggy boxers and flow up her thighs. A bit hardened, she grumbled something beneath her breath. _“It was either this or dirty clothes.”_ Jed instantly shook his head.

“I’ll be honest, seeing you in my clothes sort of makes me want to take pictures of you.”

“Absolutely not.”

The man only chuckled, going back to cutting the meat into long strips. Pushing herself off the wall, she stood by his side and watched him. Jed seemed to have been having some trouble concentrating suddenly.

“Where the hell did you learn how to cook?” she asked.

The man looked down at her, “Cookbooks… it’s boring eating microwaved dinners all the time. Besides, they’re not healthy.” Then he noticed the way she was swaying, but barely. Jed’s brow quirked.

“Are you tipsy?”

“No,” she bit the question hard, her eyes narrowing as she gave the man some breathing room. Not before taking a piece of meat and slipping it into her mouths. Shit, it tasted great. Tender, too. Planting her butt upon the very same seat she sat on months ago, she listened the sound him of chopping and thought to herself.

“I hope you like fajitas!” he chimed. “Made this for my birthday once. Burned the meat, and meat is not cheap. But, I figured to try it again for you since I never made anything like this for us.”

Morgan didn’t quite hear what he said, staring out the window of the kitchen with exhausted eyes. Without looking back at him, she gripped the table tightly and did everything in her power to not think about his voice. That threatening, sickening voice.

“… are you scared?”

Blinking, Morgan saw him looking over his shoulder, his knife in hand coated with a lingering sheen of blood from the meat. Gulping, she released the table instantly and started toying with the bottom of the large shirt. “… of course I am.” Admitting it didn’t make her feel any better, either, but she knew lying to the man was impossible. Pausing, Jed cut a few more times and placed everything on a plate. He wiped his hands off, approaching to run his hands through her hair. It felt so good and addictive, she subconsciously found herself leaning against his touch. “He’s been following me for a while Jed, probably for months. Joseph found out he’s been scouting for victim’s at Walleyes,” Morgan admitted. Truthfully, she shouldn’t be telling anybody this, but she trusted Jed. Trusted him and had to let it out. The man didn’t say anything, but she could see him staring at her from his faint reflection on the window. A look fixated on her, captured by her haunting words. There was concern laced in his eyes. “I feel like he’s watching me… I know he’s not here, but I fucking hear his voice in my head, Jed,” Morgan seethed, words foreboding as she stared outside into the gloomy darkness where the Ghostface may well be cloaked, hidden and out of sight. While she sat there, perfectly exposed at his mercy. “Like it’s just us everywhere I go. And I know it’s my mind being paranoid, but I can’t… shake it off…”

“But I am here with you,” Jed said.

Morgan swallowed a lump in her throat, nodding. “I know.”

“Do you?”

Brows furrowed, Morgan looked up at his questioningly to see Jed smiling down at her. His thumb ran along her bottom, leaving a tingling trail that had her chest sputtering some nonsensical sensation. Lowering his head, Jed kissed her, feeling her muffled voice sigh with every stroke of his calloused hands against her neck, shoulders, hair. It broke away too quickly, leaving her mind spiraling between his hands that graced her cheeks sweetly, as if touching her too hard would break her.

“Do you?” he whispered into her lips again, catching sight of her entranced in some lovesick daze. Exhaling slowly, she hummed airlessly against him, watching him smirk at the way she lolled her head into his tender touch. The way his eyes seemed far, as if he were lost in his own thoughts, yet total captivated by the way she was reacting beneath his inundate hold.

“Jed?” she asked, his eyes lighting up brightly.

“Yes?”

“… the peppers are burning,” she whispered, watching Jed’s face go from enthralled, to confused, to downright panicked. A short curse escaped his as he released her, finding the bell peppers burning. Finally freed from his grasp, Morgan shook her head and blinked one, two, ten times. Even bit her finger and breathed deeply to regain her composure. _Calm down, calm down. He isn’t here. It’s just Jed and you… you’re just being emotional. Stop drinking,_ she told herself. _She_ was an adult. A grown woman who could control her emotions. A can of beer came crashing in front of her, alone with a couple plates of hearty, well cooked food. Morgan stared at the silver can, expression conflicted as Jed rubbed his hands together.

“Phew, almost let those babies get ruined, heheh… you’re really _distracting_ you know that?” Jed noticed her expression. “Oh… want something else to drink?”

She bit her lip, “… do you have any juice?”

“Yeah, I do.” Taking even his own can of beer back, Jed wrestled through the fridge and retrieved a new carton of juice. “Passionfruit for the lovely lady~.” Morgan smiled, finding his corny comments equal parts annoying and charming. Suddenly, he went serious. “If he has been following you, it still doesn’t change the fact that everything’s making it a whole lot harder for him to get what he’s after. There’re cops, there me, and then there’s you. You’re smart, Morgan, and he can’t get to you that easily. You’re safe here, alright?” Taking in his words, the woman nodded, watching as he placed a small glass before her on the table. “So… about the bedding arrangements,” he began.

“I can sleep on the couch,” she commented blandly, earning a small whimper from him as he poured her a glass.

“At least let me recite to you my persuasive essay as to why you _should_ cuddle with me tonight,” he insisted.

“No,” she said firmly.

Jed bit him lips, as if hanging on by a thread of hope. “I’ll have you know, there’s a whole section of me not getting handsy.”

Hearing this notion, she stared with heavy suspicion as he finished preparing the table.

“Maybe.”

A smile slowly crawled its way up Jed’s lips. She knew damn well she couldn’t turn him down now. Morgan ate—she hated how amazing he cooked—and she felt reasonably comfortable until the phone rang. Dropping her fork, it came clattering to the ground as she hugged her torso, eyes wide and already watering at the corners. Worried, Jed reached beneath the table to grab her hand. “I’ll get it.” The moment he pulled the phone from the receiver, she felt every function in her body stop. Eyes pinch closed tightly, her heart racing a thousand miles per hour. Morgan swore she was going to faint.

_“It’s Fields. Just checking up on her.”_

“Detective, yes. Thank you, everything’s fine. We’re eating right now.”

 _Oh God,_ she thought, head falling upon her hands as she released a sigh. Pressure had been building up inside of her. So much she swore she was going to explode, but with it all suddenly rushing out of her, she felt faint and exhausted. The two spoke for a short time, ending in as little as thirty seconds. Feeling Jed’s reassuring touch against her back, Morgan looked up at his with eyes already reddened from stress. She hadn’t even noticed she began crying.

“Hey, Morgan. Everything’s going to be okay, that was just the detective calling. Look at me.” She does. She does and she almost forgot how afraid she was for him. Almost forgot the feeling of his blood, hot and sticky between her quivering fingertips. Almost forgot how much she wanted to just flee from this place and leave all the chaos behind, but she damn well knew the trauma would follow suit.

“You’d think I’d be used this,” she whispered.

“It wouldn’t be normal if you did,” he joked. Morgan looked at him, feeling a considerable amount of calm in being in his presence. That good feeling was fleeting, she knew, and could easily be casted away by the ringing of another handset. Still, just once she let herself submit to it. Just this once.

“I don’t think you’ll be needing to recite that report anymore.”

Almost instantly Jed appeared disappointed, “But I worked so hard on it.” Beneath her breath she laughed, light and short, but the noise felt good to let out. For once, she wasn’t grumbling or gnashing or biting. “Let me just clean up really quick, okay? Go wait for me in the bedroom, then experience the best cuddling you ever will in your entire existence,” he said.

Standing, Morgan stalked into Jed’s room, bypassing that horrible stain. The scent of him was permeated into the sheets, filling her lungs and leaving her brain stuffed with thick balls of cotton. Now that she was lying down, she could feel a pain in her lower back. It made her groan into the pillow, her hand massaging the tender area. Admittedly, she was eager to cuddle up against him. _Holy shit I’m getting soft,_ she thought bitterly. Opening her eyes, she stared at the corded phone on his nightstand as the sound of dishes washing rattled from down the dark hall. Morgan stared and stared, and she wondered.

_Will it ring?_

The curtains were shut, and every door and window were sealed tight. And yet she did not trust that they would stop her fears of an incoming call. With burning hate she grabbed the cord and yanked it clean from the wall. It popped, clattering into a knotted bundle upon the ground. Why the hell anyone would have a telephone by their bed was beyond her, anyway. Morgan crawled beneath the covers, threatened eyes not once leaving the phone sitting upon his nightstand.

No phone calls tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES: 1) While writing the exchange between Joseph and Morgan, I originally had added Joseph requesting files from the Woodsboro murders. Technically Scream took place in 1996, two or three years after Morgan's timeline. Instead, I made it where they found Danny's old tracks.  
> 2) Looking into The Ghostface's add-ons inspired me to mix in some more story goodness, as well as helping Joseph find incriminating clues on pinning the Ghostface on someone. The Walleyes Matchbook was major inspiration.  
> 3) The original end of this chapter was comprised of Morgan getting drunk on beer, but it felt wrong and I didn't see it fitting her character to get carelessly drunk. Especially after adding in the whole Walleyes thing.
> 
> Planning on releasing a side series, which would be all the instances of Jed and Morgan that we don't get to see in the main story. Also... of Jed's POV in a lot of things. Anything that I feel fancied to write, or even some requests (story related more than likely). What do you guys think?
> 
> Morgan, Morgan, falling down the rabbit hole. This clever man knows exactly what he is doing. 
> 
> QOTC: Who's another killer you guys like to read killer/OCs or inserts for? I usually don't read inserts, but sometimes I'll see click them and see what's on the market. I enjoy Legion ones, tho I wished there were more Joey. Most of it is Frank.


	19. Memento

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She never expected to see him carrying it ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a while putting my thoughts on this one together DX. Hope everyone's doing well. It's getting boring having no parks to visit.

“I lost it.”

The words struck her ears like a curse. Panging in her mind like a ricocheting bullet, Morgan had to shake her head just to see if she were hallucinating. But the bleeding Jeff before her being tended by Nea made her realize that what he had said was not her imagination, but real. The tremor seizing up his hand proved it. With the blood rolling between his bony knuckles, Jeff let out a choked sob. One of frustration and defeat. It was rare they ever got their hands on such a valuable key.

“Hold still,” Nea urged, the blood between her fingers making her slip. She was no Claudette, but working with the woman for years had taught the former street painter a thing or two on tending messy injuries quickly.

“Shit!” exclaimed the rusty voice of David King, his hand burrowing into the few tufts of hair on his head. “Shit, shit, shit! Why’d ya go and drop it?!” he whispered hoarsely.

“ **He** made him drop it, look at the gash in his arm,” Morgan interrupted, kneeling down to Jeff’s level to help Nea finish up the binding. It was mind-numbingly tight, but it kept the blood from pouring out. Already, Morgan could tell that Jeff was experiencing a dizzy spell. “Can you get up?” she asked, earning only an indistinguishable noise. With her hands gripping his shoulders, she gave him a single, firm shook. “Jeff, look at me, can you get up?”

“… yeah… I-I’m sorry. I saw the opening and… thought I could get the door open,” he breathed. Normally, Jeff was as bold as the rest, though not in a way most would notice. He worked well in the shadows, always a step ahead of a killer. The only times he was caught, it was to benefit to some degree. Right now, he boiled with an anger that he didn’t want to let show. Quiet—he was always so quiet—sometimes it helped, other times he made him stuck in his own head.

“Don’t be. This isn’t supposed to be easy. We’re going to find it.”

David scoffed, “A key? A lil’ fuckin’ key?”

“I have good eyes, while you and Nea can cover double the ground. You’re both fast. We could try and get to a door, but that’s going to cost us,” Morgan explained.

Wiping Jeff’s blood onto her pants, Nea took a breather, anxiety flooding into her eyes. “That’s a death sentence. They’re right next to each other. Every hit he lands is critical. We’re lucky Jeff’s still alive. Not unless we can distract him.”

“I tried,” David interjected, teeth grinding against one another with agitation. “By the time we started gettin’ near the shack, the bloke went and turned back ‘round! I can’t keep him on me!”

Biting down on a finger, Morgan stared hard at the ground for some time. “… maybe if I…”

But instantly, her voice was drowned out by the others. “No!” cried Nea.

“You can’t,” insisted Jeff. “He won’t let you go.”

“Gonna have ta agree with the others. Let’s count it as a last resort, eh?”

A part of her wanted to scream. In any other situation, she could be most useful, but in trials against him… she proved to be utterly useless. Like being escorted by guards, they had to plan and act carefully around the knowledge that the moment he would see her, then they would surely lose her.

If only she could run for as long as Meg, while being quiet as Jake, slippery as Kate, and elusive as either Nea or Jeff. Staring down at her fingers, she saw the many microscopic cuts adorning the pads of flesh. Her knuckles were already bruised, and there were electrical burns upon the joints where wires zapped her sweat-slicked palms. No one hooked. Everybody’s either been able to lose him, or not once been caught. It didn’t help that the fog was thinner, and that he didn’t seem to be as vicious as usual. As if he weren’t being his usual self.

_That guy’s been keeping to himself all **pissed** as **hell**._

Frank’s haunting, sinister voice quaked her mind. She swore he was next to her every time she recalled his words. _Doesn’t matter. Just have to stay alive._ With a shiver rolling down her spine, Morgan glanced over her shoulder toward the direction of Jeff’s altercation with the killer. “Where did you drop it exactly?” she asked as Jeff slowly stood with the help of David. Leaning against the wall, he took in a deep breath and closed his eyes for a short moment, regaining his composure.

“By the docks… in the mud.”

“Shit’s probably sunken in by now,” King growled.

Nea spoke up, “I saw the hatch by a small upturned fishing boat. It’s pretty far from the docks, near the shipwrecked yacht.”

“Not a problem fer me,” David retorted. “I’ll be honest though. Big guy here’ll probably go down before makin’ it there.”

Jeff noticeably winced, defeat twisted at his features. Nevertheless, he agreed bitterly. “He’s right… I don’t think I can run for long.”

“Morgan, what do you think?” Nea asked, to which Morgan scanned their surroundings in thought. There was no sight of the killer, who perhaps had stationed himself between the exit gates. Clenching her jaw, she pressed her back hard against the trunk of the many willow trees surrounding them, the long blades of sawgrass grazing faintly amongst one another in the fake, gentle breeze. So many opportunities for the killer to hide from sight, to stalk and watch. She gripped her camera tightly.

“I think someone needs to help Jeff to the hatch, while another joins me to search for the key. We want to stick in teams of two, that way there’s more eyes to keep a watch out for him.”

“And if he leaves the doors?” David asked.

“You’ll never know where he is until it’s too late. Assuming he’s left the doors is a death wish, but there’s still a chance that he doesn’t know where the hatch is,” Morgan explained what she believed was their best shot. Fingers opened and closed. No matter how hard she assessed this conclusion, she couldn’t determine if it was the best possible plan with the best possible outcome. For them all to survive would be a feat alone. Undoubtedly, someone would die.

“I’ll go with you,” Nea said. “I used to drop my housekey all the damn time when running from cops. Never once really lost it since I always knew where to look.”

Morgan nodded, chuckling a little at the interesting story Nea shared. “Alright… whenever we’re all ready.” Gulping, the group nodded, sharing quick pats and reassurances before separating. The mud beneath their feet was thick. It sucked their limbs in, firm enough to walk on, but stopping would prove difficult as they would continuously sink until ankle deep. It slurped and squeaked like sludge, leaving behind heavy trails that could easily be tracked. For that reason, Nea and Morgan kept themselves within the tall weeds. The edges were jagged and left light cuts upon their fair skins, but the sacrifice was necessary. To win against this particular foe, they had to remain utterly hidden from his sights. Remove all their traces.

“It’s like it doesn’t want us to get out,” Nea huffed, her muscles tired from such unfamiliar terrain. “These trials keep getting more and more unfair.”

“Those are all the signs of desperation, wouldn’t you agree?” Morgan smirked tiredly from over her shoulder, casting Nea a hopeful look that made the woman freeze for a moment. It was Nea’s turn to chuckle.

“You’re kind of crazy, you know that?” she asked, using all her might just to lift her mud-drenched converse from the wet earth. “That’s what I like about you.”

Oh dear, Morgan almost wanted to carry on the conversation. Had she grown so used to this hell that this was almost normal? That smirk of hers began sinking away, turning sour at the thought of her getting used to this. Her becoming a professional at it. Her with skin so hard not even a knife could break her spirit.

Her never leaving.

A staggering breath later, she felt the fingers of Nea wrap around her shoulder just as she was about to mindlessly step out into the clearing. “We’re here,” the woman whispered, the warmth of her breath tracing over Morgan’s flesh and leaving a trail of goosepimples. Skin laminated over with thick sweat, she observed the creaking structure of the rotting docks and felt a sense of cold rush over her. The swamps were always so vile and humid, a dull summer heat rising from the thick mud below, impersonating an earth that had been baking over a hot sun during the rainy season. And yet, she felt cold.

“… where do we start?” Nea wondered aloud as Morgan surveyed the area. There was no sound of the whipping of belts, nor the sight of black fabric ghosting around a corner from her peripheral. If he were there, he was very well hidden. Various tracks were scattered about the area, the muddy footprints soiling the once perfectly untouched mounts of squishy dirt. They even led into a trail onto the incline, where Jeff more than likely fled up in an attempt to try and escape the killer that was hot in his pursuit. “I’ll look through the pier real quick while you search the mud.”

They took a moment to breath before slowly making their way to the wooden structure. Creaks and groans accompanied popping wood in a cacophony of morbid sounds. Morgan carefully made her way behind the intricate walls to sneak bellow the pier, where she could begin her search hidden from sight. Digging her fingers through the mud, she raked and raked, curling her fingers around old roots and rotting twigs. Thick, warm, viscous mud slipped through her hands, forming straight lines of tilled soil that reminded her of a home too far away—in time and in distance—a time where she would smell the grains and hear the machines roaring up a storm as workers and farmers awoke in the early morning hours before the sun could beat down upon them. Morgan used to wonder what farming was like when those machines weren’t real. When people—from hired hands, to small families, to slaves—would take the grains by hand and carefully pluck them free. Would carry around a sickle and strike the matured plants from the base with their bare hands for hours on end.

Sweat pooled in the crook alongside her nose, the taste of salt invading her mouth as the mud soaked up her sleeves. Morgan hissed, removing her jacket and tying it around her waist. Some dirty mud flung upon her cheeks, staining her pretty skin with its greyish, off-brown hue. As she continued forward—making sure to feel around every nook and cranny, Morgan spotted a window laced with blood. Morgan’s heart skipped a beat. She treaded forward and pressed her mud-slick fingers against the hot remains of Jeff’s blood. The mud was stained in ruby, and after she searched one side of the wall leading up to it, she hopped the window slowly and carefully before beginning her search on the other.

“Where is it…” she cursed beneath her breath, peeling back dirt and finding all sorts of hidden, disgusting treasures while being careful her camera didn’t drag against the slop. All but what she sought after.

**_Creeeek._ **

Morgan stopped, holding her breath to listen to the sounds of moan wood. Cattails shifted softly in the breeze. The window howled a sad bellow like a dying man’s last breath. The crust of the earth was gurgling, while hooks untouched since the start of the trail shifted with rusty groans in dire hunger. Waiting. She was quiet, unmoving, until a crow bellowed from the topmost point of a wood beam where it was perched. Morgan glanced up, staring at the eerie bird, her eyes opening wide with a new sense of fear. It watched her intently, Nea’s quiet and careful movements keeping it from being spooked away. Something about it didn’t seem right, however. They always did stare, but…

“Morgan.”

Nea was peaking from the edge of the pier, her body so closely pressed onto the floor. “I don’t see it up here,” she groaned. That was something Morgan was afraid to hear. Elbow deep in mud, Morgan sighed heavily, already winded from her fervent attempts. But then she heard something.

She heard the whipping of belts and faint soggy footsteps just as the crow was frightened away.

A gasp—Nea was suddenly gone, having hidden the moment Morgan pressed her back against the wall. _He’s here,_ she thought. _I heard him… he’s here._ At least, she thought she did. Carefully peaking around the corner, Morgan fought against her heavy, panic-stricken gasps in the hopes of confirming her suspicions. The moment she had picked up on the fearsome sound, however, it was lost to the array of swampy insects chirping between the reeds. Maybe it was all in her imagination? Closing her eyes, she let out a shaky breath and wiped her hands against her shorts, hating the feeling of the thick mud clumping between her fingers. Another glance up.

The crow was still gone.

Perhaps Nea had frightened it.

“Morgan, I see it!”

From between the floorboards she could see Nea’s hand reach through, pointing at the muck beneath the pier where a second entrance led to the opposite incline. Leaping silently through the window, Morgan hurried to the disturbed layers of wet dirt where a dull shine could be seen peaking from beneath the dark waters. Burling her fingers inside, Morgan felt the elaborate shaft of the key. Black and silver metals intertwined, forming jagged teeth all crowned by an elaborate head sporting jewels of amethyst and amber stones. It gave an energy and raced up her arm, numb in pain like a vibration quelling deep in her muscles. A staggered breath blew from between her aching lips. Morgan chuckled, gripping it tightly. Yet she saw the marks of boots—large in size—that left a haunting trail leading up the stairs toward the pier above. Shooting her gaze up, Morgan heard the creaking of wood, spotting a dark figure between the cracks.

“Nea move!”

On cue she rolled to the side, and Morgan was blinded by the small trickling pieces of wood that burst from the gashed floorboards. A white, haunting looking face stared after the fleeing survivor before staring down silently at her.

He tilted his head. That sickening, fake voice droned out, **_“Mooorrrrgaaaannn~.”_**

Morgan shivered beneath her skin. With a wince she treaded through the mud hurriedly, breaking for the blood-stained window where she could see Nea land from her high jump. Mud splashed, caking against her arms, and she looked over her shoulder with a fiery gaze.

“Get away from him Morgan, don’t let him get you!”

Because then they’d never be able to save her. Vaulting, Morgan skidded messily, struggling to keep her composure as her buried fingers pried within hidden roots and sticks for support. Nea grabbed her hand, pulling her up before bolting forward faster than Morgan could keep up. Crows scattered, filling the night air with loud panicked noises and flapping wings. Her heart echoed in her ears, deafening her with that telltale sign of danger. Refusing to look back, she knew how close he was from how painful her chest throbbed. There was no crimson light flooding from his eyes, his body moving rigidly and desperate. Far unlike an automaton serving its single purpose, with no enjoyment nor resisting; nothing but perfect synergy between master and puppet. No, the Ghostface was hellbent, slicing and lunging far too desperately, his excitement casted in his sporadic breaths. **_“Where you goin’ baby?!”_** he hollered, the sheen of his blade like ice crackling in the air. Pushing through thickets, Morgan felt her foot caught on a buried ore, her body hitting the wet mud with a nasty smack. She coughs, feeling it invading her mouth with a putrid taste. Rancid water merged with the rotting carcasses of various plants. Her eyes welled up with tears, stinging from both the flavor and the fear. Scrambling onto her back, she held out her camera to take a flash photo, only for the light to be blocked by the mud.

“Dammit!” Morgan cried, attempting to scrape off the remnants while snapping photo after photo in a wave of endless light. The brightness would be blinding and then fade into a shimmer that was barely enough to illuminate passed the blades of sawgrass where he barreled through. Searing pain, a scream. Though the Ghostface scraped the flesh between her neck and shoulder, she could feel the heat rooting deep into her bones. Pain blinding like a white light seared from the serrated edge down her limbs, across the expanse of her wet skin. All at once she felt hot and cold. In seconds after, she felt nothing at all. Stunned, she helplessly cried as the killer twisted her wrist, her fingers clenched on the object releasing its hold instantly.

Not a key, but a soiled stick.

Had Nea not helped her up, then she wouldn’t have been able to make the exchange. It was an unspoken agreement between them, though. Should the killer come, Nea would have it. She was quieter and faster. If four couldn’t escape, then at least the three of them could.

 ** _“Why you smart little minx, shoulda known you’d give it to that mouth breather,”_** he growled, and yet he didn’t sound as angry as he’d ought to. No, he enjoyed her coyness. Her quick smarts and clever little antics. Morgan knew well that being _clever_ wasn’t good enough. Moving her other arm send waves of pain through her neck, but she fought through the ache. Ignored the thought of the vile mud invading her body through the open wound. Prying her fingers beneath the mask, she pressed her thumb against his eye and heard the sound of his voice eliciting a hoarse cry. The Ghostface lurched back, and she knocked him over with a swift kick of her foot. With him writhing and slashing blindly, she struggled through the terrain into the building, the stench of rotten meat and death wafting through the air as her feet boomed against the floorboards. Her mind was in a frenzy.

 ** _“YOU’RE NOT GETTING AWAY FROM ME!”_** she heard him screaming into the night. The crows fell silent along with the crickets. Everything listened to his lament. **_“IT CAN’T TAKE YOU AWAY THIS TIME! YOU’RE MINE MORGAN!”_**

Where was the hatch again? She was having a hard time recalling. “Wait!” Arms stopped the fleeing woman in her tracks. It was Nea, who had been hidden behind a stack of casks. There was no time to patch up, so she wrapped her arm around her and helped her injured form through the nasty mud, the heartbeat of the killer’s proximity booming in their ears. Yet with Nea’s wisdom they managed to slip away, silently mazing through an invisible path that made their endeavors longer, but far less predictable. Morgan trusted in Nea. She was a woman who could preserve them, who read well enough into killers to predict where they’d search first. _Hide in plain sight,_ she would always say. _Sneak around, and make sure to go where they’ve already searched through. Most of the time, they don’t look twice._ Sure enough, she was right. As they pushed their ways through thick weeds and browning grass, they could see the beached shipwreck and the small, upturned little boat beside it. Upon their arrival, David appeared from beneath the low hanging trees, already wrapping his arms around the aching Morgan.

“Shit, was startin’ ta get worried ‘bout you two.”

“We found it,” Nea held out the key, scurrying to the hatch that was nested in a patch of drier dirt. With a loud noise and a little resistance, it flew open once unlocked. Cold air and the stench of ash rushed out. They noticeably sighed with unbelievable belief, their eyes stinging from the stark contrast of the air pouring from the dark abyss.

“C’mon,” David urged, allowing Nea first entry. Jeff followed suit, his body noticeably less tense knowing that they’ve reached a favorable outcome. Whipping the mud from her arms, Morgan kept an eye out. Ears perched, she felt her skin crawl at a sound barely audible. Her head snapped around.

There.

The Ghostface’s white mask was between the blades, silently rounding the tip of the boat. She noticed first, and just as David looked up to see the killer only seconds from kicking the hatch door, Morgan pressed her shoulder against the small of his back.

“Morgan?!”

“I’ll be fine!”

David cried in protest, tripping into the darkness and watching as Morgan flung the hatch shut in the nick of time before the Ghostface could reach in and grab the collar of the Brit’s jacket. _No one but me,_ she thought, a bitter smile crossing her lips. Should she slipped in too, then she might have made it, but undoubtedly David would have been yanked out in the process. They’d offered countless times to protect her. It was a spoken agreement amongst most of them, and yet Morgan couldn’t. The thought of the Ghostface hurting anyone else made her blood boil. With her abdomen sprawled over the closed hatch, she dared to look up. The killer snickered, kneeling himself down before her.

 ** _“I… knew… you… would.”_** As he cackled—striking her back with the steel end of his boot—Morgan landed within the mud and felt the earth begin to crack beneath. A moment passed as he stared at the glow seeping from the ruptures. Fingers wrapped tightly around her throat, his knife high over his head. **_“You’re addicted to this, aren’t you? Why else would you stick around?”_** There was a ringing in her ears from that voice changer of his. Already feeling the pressure building inside her skull, Morgan rattled out a cough and reached up, yanking away the mask to expose that cursed face. It always hurt the most looking at him. Seeing the insanity swirling in his eyes. Like a corpse.

No, like a cold-blooded killer.

_Jed._

Morgan closed her eyes. That wasn’t his name. His name was…

_“Dan… ny…!”_

It didn’t occur to her why she said it. Perhaps the panic. No killer frightened her so much, because though some were far gone from humanity—or weren’t even human at all—it was the Ghostface that knew her the most. That understood her. That could truly exploit her weaknesses. Who sheltered her in her invulnerable state, and had his fingers tightly wounded around the flesh of her heart. And she’d given the vital organ willingly.

She had loved him.

_But you don’t anymore. You hate him._

Morgan stared up at those iced-over eyes that widened a bit with shock at the mentioning of his name. Danny had frozen in place, his irises vortexed in a strange, psychotic sort of way. It was as if something was living within his eyes alone, ever present. A feeling, or perhaps another person—she wasn’t sure. These thoughts alone were confusing her. Perhaps it was the pain, or the lack of oxygen. Still, she couldn’t quite put a finger on whatever it was she was seeing. The inexplicably harrowing gaze flickered slightly, shattering enough to where he seemed too painfully familiar. The river-stone grey and blue honed into her eyes, his breathing transitioning from excited to slow and even. Sweat slicked his neck, forehead, and stubble. With an awoke-like state, the killer looked down at her, utterly baffled.

_You hate him._

Narrowing her eyes into dangerous slits, Morgan reared her good arm back and landed a punch straight into his jaw. “Fucker!” she snarled, witnessing him fall with a satisfying grunt. Fear had rushed away, replaced with an anger as she flourished him with punch after punch with a lone arm, reveling in Danny’s muffled retorts. They drowned beneath the mud flooding into his mouth, a mix of spit and blood coating her knuckles as it oozed down his jaw into a slick, disgusting pool below the crook of his neck. Danny seethed, reaching up to tug furiously against her knotted strands. Morgan cried. Their limbs tangled, their bodies rolling along the soppy mud that sloshed with their violent movements. Finally, Danny had seized her legs with his own. The belts of his cloak swished in the air, tangling her joints once her furious kicked lodged between the appendages.

“What got you mad?” he teased, teeth coated in blood and grime. “Talk about an outbreak.” In a final act of defiance, Morgan took all the strength she had left to slap him across the face. Danny’s head jerked with the strike, her wrist quick like a snake and bearing down a power he wasn’t expecting after all that energy she’d just burned. Before Morgan could push herself up and flee toward a gate, Danny had wrapped his fingers around her ankle and yanked her down again. Howling a storm of snarls, Morgan fought against his grip as he mounted her once more, one of his eyes clamped shut from mud as blood began to stain his teeth. Scream after scream she shook violently until the leather of his gloves skinned her wrists and the bearing of his knees bruised her sides. Finally, she fell limp, writhing in the mess and breathing heavily into the humid air. Blood stained his bottom lip. This was the first time she’d seen him since then. In terms of hurting him, she was from satisfied, but she had to take what she could get.

“I… **hate** … you!”

Danny sighed, rearing his handsome face up to stare at the starless sky. Bloodshot eyes rolled back down to her, glazed over with a dullness that only a corpse should possess. “Morgy baby, you’re starting to sound like a broken record.” And then he smiled. “You don’t hate me. We’re a couple.”

“You’re dead to me.”

“Nah ah! I haven’t died once in my life… I guess that makes you tougher than me now, huh?” he humored, leaning down despite Morgan’s hissing. “Give me a kiss.”

“Any closer and I’ll bite you lips off,” she growled, her voice heightened by the fear rattling up her insides. The warmth beneath was nearing. An amber glow casted into Danny’s face, blinding him long enough for Morgan to twist around and slip herself free. She burrowed into the mud, finding a large root that she used to hoist herself forward. Her body slid, she scampered to her feet. In seconds, Danny had leapt forward and wrapped his arms around her, the desperation in his movements littering her smaller body with bruises. As they fell upon the soiled earth, she is winded by his greater weight.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled into her ear. Suddenly, Morgan laughed, rolling to her side to peer up at him. No way was she getting out now, but she didn’t like making anything easy for him.

“Somebody’s desperate,” she remarked cruelly, unable to mask the tired quiver in her words. “You spot me, and you forget about everybody else. Just one kill this trial. Bet that thing isn’t happy with you.”

Then there was a burning hatred in his cool eyes, contrasting against the red flush that spread from his clenched jaw, down to his tense neck. Danny seethed viciously, “I don’t give a **_shit_** about **_It…!_** ” The defiance in Morgan’s eyes faltered momentarily, the rigidness and hate burning through his clothes making her stiffen up in fear. Warm, putrid air flowed from underneath them, like an ancient dragon breathed sulfuric air out in heated waves. She recalled the way she died last with him. To those great, alien claws. The pop of her spine snapping and then nothing, but not before feeling that unexplainable pain in her head. It had the pleasure of taking control that game—tricking this man into thinking he had a chance to bribe with it. There was no doubt about it now—Danny hated it. Danny hated serving it, and he hated not having his way. Admittedly, Morgan would rather die by his hands than the Entity’s. She gulped, glaring at the dirtied blade gripped between his fingers as he breathed labored above her.

“… finish it then,” she sneered, and then Danny grinned.

“We both know _soooomebody_ isn’t going down without a fight. C’mooon, for old time’s sake,” he teased, his head lowering so close to hers that she could feel his hot breath. **_“Humor… me…?”_**

“Gladly.”

And then there were stars.

Morgan threw her head back and smashed it into his, but this time harder than before. So hard that Danny’s world was spinning. The air was wet, and the warmth of the Entity’s glow made his body sweat profusely. He gagged, leaning over to feel the grass slicing at his rigid cheeks. “Oh… _damn_ ,” he mouthed, slowly regaining consciousness enough to let out a strained laugh. “That’s my girl. Always playin’ me hard.” Long fingernails jabbed at his throat. Danny coughed, snatching tightly at her wrist as her free hand tugged mercilessly at his hair. He bore his teeth, snarling up at her with a grin so sickening. Clearly, he enjoyed her onslaught. Enjoyed seeing her so riling up in a futile attempt to survive.

Futile.

She doubted there was any time to waste in trying to get a gate open. They took so damn long, and the key used before was broken into pieces upon the floor. Instinctually, she wasn’t going to let this man kill her. No not, not ever, not willingly. But to die by that putrid fate again?

No time could she spent on mixed emotions. Whatever thoughts that lingered in her mind were swept away the moment he finally came to his senses. The knife slashed at her side. Morgan barely dodged it. With arms far weaker than his, she relied on her own legs to pin his arm deep into the mud. “You’re so amazing,” he snickered through clenched teeth a sinister mix of bitterness and infatuation. “You go so hard even when everything’s goin’ downhill. There’s nobody in this world like you.” With a spinning head she jabbed her fingers deep into her mouth, crying out the moment he bore his teeth down upon the joints. His voice made her want to break down, she just had to silence him. Morgan yanked back, feeling the skin tear and bones pop as the canines of his teeth broke through skin. Danny hummed, the vibrations hurting her all the more. Straining her legs and core to hold down his strong arm, she wrapped her fingers around her throat and forced him back against the mud. It wasn’t deep enough to drown him. Disappointment swirled in the pit of her gut. Danny bit down again, gagging and giggling as she cried out in pain. He couldn’t breathe, and yet he wasn’t passing out. Regardless of how hard she pressed down against his throat and blocked his airwaves with her bleeding fingers.

“Give up…” Morgan rasped, tears spilling from her red eyes as she stared at the man’s skin turn red, and then purple, and then near blue. **“Just give up!”**

Another weird, gagged snicker. That wasn’t happening anytime soon. Somehow he smirked against her prodding fingers, his eyes focusing straight into her own. Lightheaded, she attempted to bear down harder, but her legs were beginning to burn as he gradually beginning lifting his arm free from her weight. How could a man be this strong? This determined that tearing at his airways did next to nothing against him? _He’s insane…_ Morgan thought. _Totally insane._ Or maybe it was this place—the Entity—making him this way. She didn’t have the time to think on it, but she worried she’d forget to contemplate this revelation later when she had the chance. Morgan was almost compelled to beg for him to let her go. Not once did he ever allow her the freedom of a cold, endless void within a hatch. Or the long span of nighttime plains leading to the campfire just beyond the exit gates. The only fate that followed a meeting with the Ghostface was a painful demise and the endless whispers of an Entity tempting her to just _give up_.

Amid their struggle she saw a thread of silver revealed when the neckline of his leather cloak was tugged. The sparkling sight was a rarity, clashing against the earthy tones and matte textures that coiled their skins. Morgan stared at the piece of jewelry hanging around Danny’s neck and she staggered.

_That’s…_

Danny saw the opening and took it. The motion was so fluid and masterfully done. Morgan barely felt the knife plunge within her abdomen. The pain came far too quickly, but it fed into her dazed mind. She was at a loss for words, a rattled breath wheezing from her burning lungs as she drew her hands back to hover around his fist. Not once did she touch it, though, because those fingers were clung around the knife itself, and she feared it would elicit more pain.

“Ah…” Morgan moaned in agony, but the croaking noise fell short as her breath did. Within her ears she could hear her heartbeat booming. Feeling the heat of torment coursing across her still body. Danny was gasping for air, breathing between grinding teeth. And with his bloodshot eyes he looked down to see whatever it was that made her stall long enough to drop her precious guard.

“You…” she whispered, jolting when he yanked the blade out. Morgan would have fallen back if it weren’t for his hands stationing her upright, and then slowly forward until she was lying on top of him. A warmth was forming between their abdomens as she shivered in discomfort, suffering silently. Refusing to give him the liberty of hearing her cries of pain.

Morgan couldn’t fight back the tears.

Beneath, Danny was stilling catching his breath. Inhaling deeply through his flared nostrils, he rested a hand endearingly upon her head and stroked her dark locks.

 _“… why,”_ she muttered, her head resting upon his chest. She’d move off him if she could feel her limbs, but as the blood pooled, so did her life as it drained from her body. Morgan rasped, fighting the sleep to in turn speak as the cracks formed wider and brighter around them. _“Why… do you still… have…”_

Why was he still _wearing_ it?

“What?” Danny asked, petting her precious little head with his gloved hands. The knife was gone, perhaps abandoned in the mud nearby. “My little memento? What’s it matter? I thought you hated me…” With that, he started to hum, his voice deep and soft as it bounced through his clothes into her body. The pain was easing away, numbing as the world turned dark at the corners. Infuriated, she gripped tightly at his cloak, fighting as hard as she could.

_You_ **hate** _him._

_… right?_

Within moments she was dead.

And he knew. No longer did her heartbeat against his chest, nor did her fingernails tear at his leather clothes. Danny’s hand fell still, his voice dying as the world slowly turned cold and dark. In the last moments he still felt her body he gripped it tighter, an anger swelling inside of him that had been lingering for some time. Like charcoals burning in a cruel winter, refusing to be snuffed out against the snow piling upon it. Around his neck, the chain left a burning line from grinding against his skin.

“Naughty girl, seeing things you aren’t supposed to.”

***

Huddled before the fire, Morgan chewed slowly on amaranth. It was a wheat she remembered growing often back home. The purple variety, though this was tale and distasteful. They never starved, but there was a strange ache that possessed her stomach. Almost like a phantom pain. She should have been starving, but she wasn’t. Naturally, her body would try anything to feed its dire need for familiarity. Swallowing the dry grains, Morgan tore another head from the bundle clenched in her hands and stuffed it between her lips. The dry ends were scratching the roof of her mouth. Pieces were lodged between her teeth, but she didn’t care much for the discomfort.

_Why?_

It was repeating in her mind endlessly, but to no avail. Yet why, why did he still have that? A memento he called it, was it because he thought her be the victim who would never die? The prey that would—in his mind—eternally play with him? _Undoubtedly,_ she thought, _so the real question is_ why _think so hard about it?_ But the woman knew damn well why. Because she had to see it. Because seeing it evoked so many memories. To her side sat Bill, an unlit cigarette between his lips. He glanced at her with a questioning look. His old eyes were crowned by thick eyebrows that tilted in a way where she just knew something was storming up in his mind.

“What, wondering how I’m stomaching this?” she grumbled, but the man only snickered to himself.

“Darlin’, I’ve eaten worse shit when I was a soldier. Not here to question. Just never reckoned you fer a farmer type.”

It was Morgan’s turn to raise a brow. “How’d you know I used to farm?”

“Been here for a long time, and you’re the first I’ve seen chewin’ on them grains. Either no one else is hungry, or they don’t know what it is.”

Surely, Claudette did, but she claimed she’d lose her appetite when anxious. A little smile pulled her lips over, the woman’s arms wrapped tightly around her legs. Bill sighed deeply.

“How you holdin’ up?”

Of course he could tell something with her was amiss. Swallowing, she fisted the bundle of dry plants before tossing it into the flames. They popped and sizzles as the fires consumed the crisp leaves, leaving a strange caramelized scent in the air around them. When she had finally woken up by the fire, she was met with an infuriated King. The exchange alone was loud enough for everyone to pick up on what happened. Morgan died to the hands of the Ghostface despite everyone else’s attempts in protecting her. “I’ll manage,” she muttered bitterly. Thankfully, Bill wasn’t the type to pry. Especially on things as complicated as _ended_ relationships. Morgan was well aware that getting comfort from the others was out of the question. Her situation was far too obscure, even she wouldn’t know how to approach someone who’d suffered a fate similar to her own. Plus, the only comfort they could grant was constantly denied by her. Never would she let the Ghostface get his hands on any of them when she was there. With tired eyes she noticed the shake to her fingers. Restlessness that hadn’t fully subsided yet, and she doubted it would anytime soon. But the fight kept her… remotely… distracted. Enough to get through trials and to sing around the campfire when Kate was around with her guitar. Unfortunately, they weren’t currently blessed with her presence.

_Why?_

A rush of cold seized her back. Anxious, Morgan glanced behind her shoulder to stare at the darkness beyond—to the place where they couldn’t reach, and where killers lurked.

Nothing but darkness.

“What does a soldier do when they’re afraid?” Morgan asked.

“Keep going. It’s the only thing they can do,” Bill said.

“What if they can’t?”

The man looked to her, and she could already tell he was reading into her question. Probably assessing her face, too. “Soldiers don’t have the option of choice when their lives are on the line. It’s either face it or be left for dead.”

Some people found that cruel. War was never pretty though, and neither was where they were. No, this hell was grotesque in every imaginable way. A contorted mess of memories and familiarities, stretched so far out of proportion that none of it was comprehensible nor conceivable.

“What about when something’s bothering their mind?” she veered the subject in the hopes of a helpful answer.

Bill only shrugged, “Depends on the man. Some drink until their unconscious. Others smoke it out.”

“Wonderful,” Morgan hissed, but she tried not to judge. Granting Bill her full attention, she frowned at him. “You’ve been through so much. More than anybody here has.”

“Dogs get used to it,” Bill, though joking, was oddly humble about it. “Don’t discredit yerself though. Tough situations make tough people—you aren’t the way you are cuz life was easy, darlin’. You make me think of a friend I once had: Zoey was her name. Reckon she’s alright.” The complement seeped through her skin. A man like him would notice her struggles from a mile away, and only a man like him would make tragedy into something far from depreciating. Feeling the man’s arm grace her back, she found herself leaning her head against his sturdy shoulder. Bill smelt of tobacco and something else that faintly reminded her of gun oil. And then there was the underlying stench beneath—of gasoline and rotten flesh, perhaps? Her nose cringed, and if she wasn’t so desperate for physical contact then she would have reared her head away. But the old man was warm, and kind, and real. “Sometimes you need a break, an’ I’d hate to treat a lady like some war hound. Don’t go gettin’ soft after this, though.”

A small chuckle rumbled out of her, the light cascading from the fire various hues of reds and oranges upon her pale skin. It soaked up the heat and colors—a human canvas beneath the hand of the flames—and she wondered why the Entity gave them this fire. Gave them each other. Why didn’t it just leave them in their own little areas, far apart, like some twisted cage? Why give them something to look forward to, no matter how miniscule? So many questions, and not enough answers. Morgan swore she was going to go blast her head off with all this thinking.

_Why…?_

Feeling weightless, she just knew she was dozing off on Bill. Instinctually, she’d jolt herself up and keep her mind bumbling and busy, but that would be a waste of a rare opportunity. As Bill kept watch and held her close, Morgan let her eyes close and her breathing even out, knowing damn well that she would dream about her life before, and Danny would surely be there.

***

“One to go!”

That was good news, wasn’t it? The first two had gone by, but messily. Between then and now, someone had already been hung up in display. Jake was out but not dead, and with Claudette patching him up as best as she could, that left the remaining to be completed by the lone three while Jake attempted to hide it out.

“Legion,” his lungs were wheezing. One of the Legion—it explained the bleeding. Those bastards knew how to cut. Knew how to make little slices add up, and while the first two generators were getting finished, it was Jake they chose to play with for a good chunk of that time.

“Which one?” Morgan asked, earning an exhausted glance from Jake. Though she had her own reasons in knowing, Jake wasn’t at all suspicious. Each one had their own talents, and the group knew well that one of Morgan’s first deaths was at the hands of one of them.

“One of the males… he’s wearing nothing but black,” Jake coughed. The description was unfamiliar to her. It drew her to rose a brow—wearing nothing but black? It was one she’d yet to meet.

Just one generator left. Morgan was assessing the playfield, keeping an eye out for Claudette while Adam was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, she cursed, violently punching the ground beneath her. From behind, the other female jerked, nearly prodding the deep gash in her arm that she was wrapping with dirtied gauze. “We messed up!”

“H-How?”

“The gens,” Morgan hissed, staring out into the void with her camera. Without that cursed lens her zoom was vastly limited, but she could still make out the layout of hulking metal mechanisms sitting cold and quietly amongst the trees. “They’re right up against each other…”

Claudette made a sorrowful noise, gazing up at the woman behind cracked glasses. “But that means… it’s going to be impossible to finish.”

And here Morgan thought the killer was giving up on chasing. Intelligently, he’d been ushering them. Moving them like sheep in whatever way he pleased. Forcing them to work in integrated areas so that they’d ultimately make this fatal mistake. And to make matters worse, he’d kept them separated for a majority of the time. Even though they were all seasoned and knew well to avoid such foolish mistakes, there was no way of communicating to one another for avoiding it. _He’s smart,_ Morgan thought. _He’s smart and he’s played us as fools._ And fools they turned out to be, indeed.

“We need to get someone to distract him,” Claudette contemplated. “While two other people work on generators.”

“He’s too smart for that. Somebody’s going to die, no matter how perfect we do this,” Morgan interjected, and they were words that the quieter woman desperately didn’t want to hear. A wince, a whimper. Claudette nodded slowly, understanding the harshness to Morgan’s observation. The reality of the situation was grim, no matter what plans they conjured up.

“Where’s Jake?” she asked.

Morgan rested her bottom on the freezing soil, rubbing at her aching legs that twitched from the cold. “He’s on the second floor of that strange processing plant. The generator there is finished, so I figured the noise would cover up his cries. If the killer were to go up the stairs, they’d creak loud enough for him to hear and slip away in time,” she explained.

“And Adam?”

“I’m not sure. Probably trying to get an opening to work on a generator… Claudette,” Morgan saw her perch her head up. “I’m going to go find Adam and help. Will you find Jake and take him to an exit gate?”

“Yes,” she responded. With her camera tight in her grip, Morgan took her leave into the thick fog. It veiled across the playfield, restricting her vision only for a moment before the swirls opened up a small clearing. Her heart had yet to pound, not since the beginning when she spotted the white, skull mask of the killer darting like a bullet through the thick grass. He barely missed her, yet somehow didn’t notice. It took everything in Morgan not to utter a surprised noise. In the distance she could hear the rumbling of a generator. Half completed, it wheezed softly with life, untampered with and abandoned.

“… Adam?” Morgan whispered harshly, the sight strange. Yet there was nobody to be seen. Perhaps he was running off with the killer close behind. Camping behind a tree, she waited for what felt like minutes. No pain seized her chest. They knew who it was they faced, so she needn’t fear the snarl of the pig or the heavy breathing of Michael. Though she knew better, Morgan swore she heard the snapping of belts…

“… okay,” she spoke, pumped herself. Despite her better judgement, she began working on the generator. _Adam’s distracting him, don’t let this opportunity go to waste._ Touching it alone sent waves of pain up her arms. Everything was so cold. The knitted jacket served very little purpose in warming up her strained limbs. Shaken, she breathed a hot breath into her fingers and bent the joints occasionally, fearful of making a loud slip up. It wasn’t long before she crossed two wires together, sparking the machine to life. Morgan was casted in a bright light, and though it was a nice change of pace, she wished they never made such loud, unwarranted noises. Vulnerable, she took a couple steps back, aiming to return from whence she came, when suddenly Morgan’s foot caught over something. She tripped, snarling at the dirt and small rocks knocking at her chest and jaw. Furling her fingers around dense foliage, she pushed herself to her knees and glanced back. The thick fog and darkness made it hard for her to see prior, but now with the light…

“Adam?!” she gasped, crawling over to touch his skin. With lifeless eyes, his expression was locked in a permanent state of horror. The skin was losing its warmth, a red liquid staining his pale coat. He’d been there the whole time, dead, and she’d only just noticed. “How… I didn’t even hear you scream…”

_There’s someone else here._

Fear squeezed at her heart when she looked up, spotting a form that had been crouching behind a tree opposite the generator. Dark eyes stared, hidden behind a black fabric with a skull crudely painted over the surface. Muffled breaths panted out as he slowly stood, slightly shorter than some but still towering over her fallen body. Morgan kicked at the dirt, drawing herself away from Adam’s body with eyes wide in surprise. Her heart, it wasn’t hammering, and yet he’d been there the whole time in secret. Allowing her to finish the task at hand.

Waiting.

With his knife he stepped into the light, tapping the edge of the rumbling machine with the red-stained blade ominously. He was young, that much she could tell. Sporting boots tied all the way up passed his ankles and black pants of a baggy style before slinging tight around his large calves. A runner, with a hood that was crusty around the wrists and dirt under his nails. From whatever bit of skin that was exposed, she noted he was of dark complexion. Young, wild, having been plucked from a time not far off from her own period. Perhaps the nineties—something about him screamed that decade. Undoubtedly, he was acquainted with Frank.

“Thanks for finishing this, lady. You just screwed up your whole team.” And then he glanced at her face some more, studying her expression and—finally—the camera gripped tightly between her twitching fingers. Slowly he wiped the blade against his bandaged wrist before huffing a little less menacingly.

“Are you **_Morgan?_** ”

Morgan glared, gripping tightly at the pine tree for support. Weak kneed, she somehow managed to stabilize herself, ready to bolt at any given moment. Yet her curiosity kept her anchored. As she nodded, she could hear his gritty laugh burning its way into her eardrums. A hushed _finally_ was barely picked up by her desperate ears, the young man twirling the knife between his fingers, into the air, and back down in a daring yet perfected stunt. Though, Morgan was far from amused and more so petrified at how swift he was, from his legs to the mere flick of his wrists. “Perfect. We need to talk, but first,” his hands came to a stop, the knife pointing toward the sound of a distant door being opened.

“Gotta take out the **_stragglers_**.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> QOTC: Any potential killer concepts you readers have made up for fun? I've always imagined a killer who can make itself look like a survivor. Like if they put "The Thing" into the game (that would be insaaaaane).
> 
> This chapter took a little while to push out. What's Danny carrying around? Seems like he's hiding something...
> 
> And mean ol' Joey with his Insidious. It's fair to say though, that if a killer lets you finish that last gen, they probably have NOED >.>.


	20. AUTHOR'S NOTE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HEAR ALL ABOUT IT!

Hey everyone! Fall is in the air and I woke up this morning feeling like this age’s newest scream queen in a slasher film!

What can I say, it has been five whole months! My sincerest apologies on my silence, as I hope I haven't worried anyone in my unannounced hiatus (I'm bad with those). The last few months have been pretty rough in terms of COVID. It's somewhat lonely at home, not being able to meet with friends since they're all so far away now. But things are turning for the better and hope was never lost! That being said, here's some announcements for the fic.

**WHY I DISAPPEARED** : I will continue with Morgan’s story (yay)! Truth be told, I was stumped on what to do next. Although I already have the ending planned out perfectly, I wasn’t sure on how to reach that goal, how long it would take, and what to do about it. DBD’s lore, though plentiful, was very limited to work within terms of certain aspects. I have been waiting for more updates that majorly affected the lore of the Entity and the Entity’s realm, preferably of certain things I don’t want to mention in case of spoilers. With this latest Blight update, I feel that I have more grounds on making a concept that isn’t too far off the rails from the canon (AND for those of you who know about the lore, I think you know what I’m trying to achieve now.) Although we as writers have creative freedom, and especially since the developers absolutely love it when their fans create new interesting ideas from the game, I’m a hardheaded pissant that doesn’t know how to veer off course, but that makes my writing I suppose!

**OVEREXPOSURE UPDATES:**

  * I will attempt to write a chapter a week, as I have other projects I’m working on alongside other daily duties.
  * The fanfic will continue with the same formula of alternating between time periods, even=pre-entity and odd=entity. That being said, next chapter will simply be a continuation of the previous.
  * Remaining fic length is difficult to determine but expect quite a few chapters in the future.
  * In the meantime, I will be rereading Overexposure to catch up on anything I might have forgotten.
  * I am also working on a character profile for Morgan (as if she were an in-game character… how awesome would that be T_T.) Those of you who like imagining what-if situations will probably enjoy it!
  * And yes, Danny will still be as tenacious as ever.



I expect to get the next chapter out by next week, given I’m a fast as heck reader :’)! Again my apologies, and I hope I haven’t lost the interest of anyone in my absence! Take care, lots of love, and stay healthy everyone!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All that said and done, time for a QOTC!
> 
> Question: How is everyone fairing with the latest DBD updates, particularly the S.H. add-on and the Blight? What are your opions? I love them, although I'd be an awful Blight player! Shame on Pyramid Head and some killer perks, although his ability and base kit is so intriguing that it doesn't bother me much.


	21. An Unlikely Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New paths were opened to Morgan. Paths which she felt she had little time to contemplate. As the pieces to an unknown path are slowly revealing themselves, Morgan must tread carefully, utilizing her strengths during her weakest moments. Meanwhile, the fearful Entity's influence drew nearer. She somehow knew that she was quickly running out of time before it was too late. She hoped that her new lead--and the arrival of two mysterious and new survivors--would help her reach the end and most precious goal. Despite all this, she could never fully erase Danny from her mind. She wondered if that truly was the only thing keeping her afloat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D< What the poop, it took me so long to pick up on what I missed out on AND rereading this fic. I skimmed through the last few chapters just to rush this out, I hated how long it was taking. What even is the lore anymore?! (I missed when things were simple...)

A dry chortle came from her throat. She didn’t know why she was laughing. Every drop that left her had her feeling all the dizzier. Fingers drew toward her face, the smell of blood leveling into the cold air in wafts of stinking copper. Dirt from the ground caked her fingers. She’d dragged herself quite the distance ever since she’d been left alone. Sit tight, of course she could do such a thing. With her name a word that resounded in whatever place the killers were kept collectively outside of trials, it was no wonder that the particular member of the Legion left her punctured and growing ever weaker with each passing seconding.

Another laugh. She watched her breath come out in flurries of fog and contemplated how many seconds until she’d die.

_300… no, that’s too generous._

Even as she sat with her back against a tilted tree—her eyes casted upward with her head slumped back against her shoulder—she could feel the trickle of blood leaving the gash straight over where her belly button once was. A cough splattered from her mouth. Something deep down told her she wasn’t going to live much longer. If she’d fallen asleep there and die, it would feel more like a win than a loss.

“No.”

The voice startled her enough to jerk. Her eyes came settling down on a form standing before her, their eyes casted over her delicate state. Just by a thread was she holding on to consciousness. Now, with her skin cold over with fear, she found herself more awake than when she’d first came to in the trial. It was herself standing before her, her face wrung up into a disappointed expression.

“You can’t die. Who knows until you get this chance again?”

What chance, she wondered.

“He said you needed to talk. He said he’d come back, and that you better stay alive.”

Oh, she’d almost forgotten. But then her brows pinched, and her mouth ripped open for a bloodied cough to erupt from her wet throat, and Morgan was then grotesquely perplexed. How could she forget?

“Because you’re bleeding Morgan. First, you’ll lose consciousness, and then you’ll die in your sleep,” her image—hallucination—explained thoroughly.

The blood kept pooling until her backside grew wet and warm. She gulped down the panicked drooling that’d been building up and squeezed her eyes shut tight. Small bursts of breaths came in and out too fast for her mind to keep up. Morgan grew dizzier.

“Slow down, stay calm. The faster your heart beats, the quicker you’ll bleed out,” her own voice told her. Heeding her own words, she listened, hold tightly onto her stomach and forcing her body to take in the air slower and deeper despite the incredible pain. She wondered if she’d make it.

“You’ll make it,” she told her, “just keep doing that. Just like that. Stay calm, don’t panic. You’ve felt death before. Don’t be scared. You’ll come back to the fire.”

But did she want to?

“Of course, everyone else is depending on you. You can’t die yet. You won’t. Just don’t panic.”

She felt so cold, but the cold was going to leave her soon. At least she felt cold and uncomfortable. At least her body quivered with pain. At least everything was so unbearable. If it wasn’t, then she knew she didn’t have much longer. The anchors weighing down her eyelids began to prevail.

“Giving up?” she heard, but it wasn’t her own voice.

Her eyes opened wide to see none other than Danny. For that quick second, her heart stopped. He watched her so pleasantly with those dull eyes that she grew to hate. As he stood there, wearing his horrific garb, she realized how much scarier he was to her when he didn’t have the mask on. If it weren’t for her numb body, growing number by the passing second, she would have shivered from the fear that rose up to her throat. Frightened—she was so frightened—but she was suddenly so very awake to see him.

“My Morgan wouldn’t give up,” he uttered, the way his lips pulled into that thin, unusual smile had her stomach churning. Against her better judgement, she blinked, and when the fog drifted from her hazy gaze, she saw Danny was gone. In his place was the Legion, his dark clothing helping him blend into the shadows of the low arching trees. Yet the crudely painted skull on his cloth mask was hard to miss. It glowed like true, dry bones beneath the little light casted upon it. Morgan breathed small little breaths, unable to take deeper ones as she felt an invisible weight pressing down on her chest. The killer merely tilted his head down at her.

“Getting paler by the minute,” he said with a gravely tone. Sickly colorless eyes tried to glance at where his face should be, but there were multiples of him as her vision struggled to pinpoint which wasn’t the afterimage.

“What?” she slurred, fear quivering her tone. Despite it not being Danny, she still was overwhelmingly afraid of this man. As she would with any puppet in the Entity’s collection. A soft sigh rattled from beneath his mask. He slowly hunched over as he would when speaking with a small child. As Morgan gazed to him, she noticed the bloodied knife he had clutched in his hand. Had he killed them all? She couldn’t recall hearing their screams.

It wasn’t until he touched her face did she notice him reaching for her. Warm fingertips left a wet trail down her cheek. Morgan didn’t have to look to tell what he was smearing on her. Yet she was completely at his mercy. What type of killer was he? Did he keep things lasting as long as possible, enjoying every moment, like the doctor? Or was he quick to finish it off, like Susie, or the Trapper? Her body felt laxer as time went on. Recoil, shutter, bite back—she’d do any of those things had she been able to. But moving took more than what she could manage, and there was something sentimental in the way he handled her. Almost gracing. The Legion was rubbing something off from her—dirt from her previous efforts. Once finished, he let his head hang down, like he was taking a breather after exerting himself so much.

“Never liked hurting girls,” he muttered, his breathing evening out. “Had to make sure I got back in time though.” His hand returned to his knee, and he continued kneeling while observing her. “How much longer you think you got?”

His words were jumbling together. Something about his nonchalance made her all the more desperate for reprieve. Equally did it perplex her. There was an echo behind every syllable that left him, like he was in a cave, and comprehending his words was becoming too much for her. His hand came and lightly slapped her face. He forced her to look at him, and it helped her regain some consciousness.

“Don’t… fucking… touch me,” she slurred.

“At least you’re talking.”

Morgan felt the cold clamming up her moist cheeks. Blood smelt closer now, mixed with soil and iron. She contemplated biting her own tongue to let herself pass quicker. Before she could grow bold enough to act, the Legion reached into his thick hoodie and pulled out a plant. At first, Morgan thought the act to be a cruel joke. But then she witnessed the weak phosphorescence from what seemed to be once fleshy petals now dried. It was small in his hands, all shriveled up without life. But could such a thing once be alive? It was grotesque yet intriguing, partially destroyed from perhaps being in his breast pocket. A potent stench reached her nostrils—strong, like rancid meat merging with sweet honey—and she felt the muscles of her esophagus twitching somewhat with a weak attempt of a gag.

_What is that?_

She wanted to ask, but her lips wouldn’t move. Couldn’t move. She felt the darkness creeping up on her a little possessively, and she mistaken it for death. It was merely the shifting fog surrounding them. Deeply did she want to stay alive just a hair longer now. Simply seeing the hideous plant spurred her mind with a strange, almost twisted feeling curiosity, but she couldn’t surmise why. It felt important though. Too many questions were firing in her brain. She felt dazed from the sudden stimulation.

“Don’t know what it is, do you?”

It too everything in her to shake her head no. No, she didn’t. Never in the real world, never in that one either. The Legion—Joey, she thought she remembered his name to be Joey—twirled it between his fingers. Dust flew from the petals in shimmering poofs of powder that was swept away by the invisible breeze. It was beautiful—it made Morgan think of a sunrise. The killer seemed to have jerked back, keeping the enchanting, glittering haze from getting to close to his face. Was it poisonous? If so, why was he showing her it?

“Neither do I,” he admitted crudely, staring down at it with both interest and disdain in his dark eyes. Then he looked back to the injured woman and angled it toward her for a better look. “You’re smart, right?” he asked. “Well here’s your chance to prove it.”

“W… Wh…” speaking was hard. She hated how weak she’d become. In all those action movies, the heroes would be shot and still keep going. So what if they lost blood? The will and vigor running through their veins kept them from falling. Why couldn’t she? But she wasn’t a man towering over with muscles harder than steel. She was a small woman, determined, yet determination wasn’t enough to keep someone alive for longer than their body’s could handle. The Legion member kept on holding the flower out, presenting it so clearly and close that the stench of its rotten yet pleasing core began stinging her sensitive nostrils.

“Got a crazy new wacko on our hands that’s obsessed with these. Sometimes the gang and I will hear him muttering to himself about it. When he’s not gone with the doc, he’s in his little shed doing all sorts of shit with ‘em. Boiling them, burning them. I’m not smart—couldn’t even keep a job—but I’m smart enough to tell that this thing’s probably a big deal. Even doc’s shown an interest to them. It’s why I swiped it when no one was looking, just to show you. Catch my drift?”

Morgan felt her head slump as she attempted a nod. Fingers deviled into her hair to reposition her head, the tugging on her roots stinging but well ignored compared to the hole in her gut. Again, he placed it near her face. The smell—it was almost too much. She felt her eyes stinging with new tears.

“Get a nice, good look at it, lady. Cuz this is probably the best example you’ll get,” he explained.

“Why… are you…” she was stopped by her first and only gag. The pain it brought erupted through her body. Muscles jolted. She didn’t feel as cold as she used to before, and that frightened her. The Legion tilted his head a little.

“Frank says you’re a piece of work, but that you’ve got guts. Knowing him, I’d take it as a compliment. That being said,” he released her hair to gently pat at her cheek. How horrible, she couldn’t feel his touch any longer. “If there’s any ticket out of his place, his bet ‘s on you. As for where to start, we don’t have a damn clue. But from what we’ve gathered, MacMillan’s been around the longest.” He could tell she had a hard time believing that. Or maybe too much blood had left her system. Regardless, Morgan stared intently at the flower, and he gave her a few more moments to study it before stuffing it in his coat. Cautiously looking around, he rolled the knife between his fingers skillfully. Morgan’s already white skin turned paler.

“How’re… you so in control?” she choked out. The killer tilted his head. His state was utterly normal compared to Susie, when she was seized by the Entity. Yet this killer made small knife tricks before her and did as he pleased. He was—disturbingly—himself, so to speak. But how?

“I do my job,” he admitted, a dry laugh escaping his hidden lips. “First time I ever made my boss happy. But you know what?” he asked, placing a hand on her shoulder to keep her from falling over. The Legion gave her a gentle squeeze.

“I still _really_ hate my boss.”

The knife was plunged forward. Morgan felt incredible pain, greater than the last, as he forced it in deeper. Bones rattled. She felt metal kissing her ribcage, and she couldn’t fight the cry that echoed from her aching throat. Seething through her clenched teeth, her scattered breaths painted his shoulder that she helplessly laid her head on. The man smelt of sweat and soil with an underlying scent of laundry detergent. Home flashed before her eyes. She could recall loading her old laundry machine with riding gear and pouring fabric softener. Fingers gripped at his forearms. He felt strong and muscular, able to overpower her even when she was at her best. She coughed up blood into his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he remained still and allowed her his body to lean on. 

“Don’t forget,” he urged into her ear, “You got a promise to keep.”

A promise.

She told Susie she’d escape and get her out.

She told everyone that.

“Y… Yeah,” she muttered quietly. Morgan lost her vision, and then her hearing, and finally consciousness.

*****

The pain was gone. Where it left, something else lingered. It was foreign and strange, but she’d felt it before. When she opened her eyes, she was left with tunnel vision. Everything was dark—she felt weightless—yet she found herself so focused with what’s before her. Morgan was freezing, yet unfeeling. She could hear murmurs yet was rendered deaf. Her eyes saw so little yet perceived so much. Too much.

Yet not enough.

**_G i v e u p_ **

It was a voice. A distant, beckoning voice, both easing yet eerie. It was weighty with something vulgar. Monstrousness, despair? She couldn’t put a word to it. Couldn’t think. Only feel lost and alone, eternally stuck in what felt like a river of molasses. Fog swirled inside of her, filling her lungs. It was cold and tasted like ashes. She wanted to sleep. But she had learned something just now. Something important. Something to start with. They helped her—they gave her what she needed!

_What did I… promise again?_

Was she forgetting?

**_G i v e u p_ **

Give up what? She couldn’t remember much all the sudden. Colors flashed before her eyes. Reds and blacks and greens. She smelt sweat and heard heavy breathing of words echoing across her scattered memories. They were all fading away. Faces, voices, memories.

_Giving up?_

Her eyes were open—she never closed them. And she saw Danny’s piercing blue eyes and the dreariness that resided in them within the nothingness that attempted to swallow her whole. He reached forward with gloved hands and touched her face tenderly in spite of the relentless maniac he was.

_You don’t even know how to do that, do you?_

His words sank into her slowly, and when she finally felt herself return just enough to comprehend them, Morgan felt her face twist into a scowl. No, she didn’t know how to do that well at all. It was then the bitter murmurs in her mind whispered viciously, impatiently to her.

**_It won’t be long now._ **

*****

A dry gasp ripped out of her throat. When she opened her eyes, she saw the light of the campfire blinding her. Cough after cough, she swore she’d been drowning. Only air left her by the lung full. Something burned coming out. Her breath tasted chalky and like charcoal, but she’d been so close to the fire, she assumed it was the eternally burning wood.

 _It happened,_ she thought in a panic. _It happened again!_

“Oy, oy, don’ tell me they found sum place ta drown you in er somethin’,” commented King. She stared at him through starry eyes, observing the lightless night sky overhead in a bitter state of relief. As he helped her sit up, she noticed her bare legs rubbing away the lines that were dug into the ground. Perfectly straight, they run parallel and perpendicularly, forming what looked like peculiar structures with odd curves. Such artistic dimensions made her think of Jeff, but upon looking around, she didn’t see him.

“Sorry,” she mewled her apology through a sore throat. She could barely recall the moments before it, but Danny’s face and touch were still fresh in her tender mind. David was saying something, but it fell on deaf ears. Morgan opened and closed her fingers, feeling the sticky sweat had turned her digits clammy. It happened again.

She almost gave in.

She almost lost to **_it_**.

The woman shook her head like a wet dog. Muscles shriveled in pain around her skull. Morgan reached up to rub her temples, her heartrate still racing high. Deep breaths came in and out through clenched teeth. Inwardly, she was a mess, yet she somehow managed to keep most of the trauma inside, hidden away from the rest.

“Everything alright?” Nea asked from her spot near the fire, and Morgan nodded with a weak smile.

“Yeah… just… bad trial,” she responded, and the answer was well accepted. Still, she seemed troubled, but the others took it as a natural reaction to a fight severely lost. They seemed downtrodden that Morgan’s temporary team had met a terrible fate. No escapes behind her leadership would often bring down moral, but not too much given it was rare. Bill still led a successful trial, while Detective Tapp gave his life to let three others escape. The word of the others doing well against the odds spread like wildfire, faster and more impactful than the momentary failure form Morgan’s end. They cheered once another up with their stories, speaking about days where they lived in a normal world, under normal circumstances. When life was boring and taken for granted. Those stories kept them going. Morgan took the liberty to think about her previous trial whilst partaking here and there in the various conversations. MacMillan—she memorized all the names Baker mentioned in his journal. That was the Trapper. Such an intimidating place to start. And the flower, what ties did that have? She wasn’t sure of the best way to approach such newfound knowledge. Morgan rubbed her wet nostril, still smelling the putrid stench that lingered in the back of her mind and stared down at the art she’d unintentionally destroyed earlier.

“Who’s been drawing?” she asked.

Ash was finicking with his metallic hand, the flickering lights licking at his angular face. “New guy. You remember him, the German.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed, “Felix?”

“That his name? I don’t know, I guess. Heard Adam let him in on the plan. Guy didn’t have much to say, but he seemed interested nonetheless,” Ash said.

“Is he here?” Morgan asked. She’d been meaning to sit down and get to know him. New faces meant much needed opportunities to catch up. In such a world, having a weak link was more than detrimental. That, and she felt responsible for making sure he was handling things as well as a human could manage.

“He goes off into the woods on his own every chance he gets. He went out about twenty minutes before you got back,” Laurie chimed in.

“What?” Morgan mulled, looking out into the dark forest with a strong sense of incredulity. It was frightfully dark in there, and though many of them would go in search for food or a change of scenery, it wasn’t often they stayed longer than necessary. Everyone feared the forest—even her.

“He’s strange, same for the broad. Élodie, that was her name,” Ash commented. “No offense, but they’re kind of hard to trust.”

“The hell you remember a bloody name loike that?” David asked.

Ash smirked rather proudly, “A gentleman always remembers a lady’s name. Lady or not, she’s still got strange written all over her.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little too judgmental?” Steve asked, his shoe in his hands as he adjusted the laces out of boredom.

Ash merely shrugged, “Listen kid, I know a suspicious person when I see one. And I’ve seen all sorts of crazy shit you couldn’t even imagine if you’d never ended up here.”

“Speak for yourself,” Steve grumbled.

The two began bickering with one another. With a sigh, Morgan pushed herself to her feet and dusted off her legs. The group returned to their own devices. Although Morgan greatly desired to sit back and speak about anything that would save her mind from the troubles they were in, she couldn’t stray far from the issues at hand. To know that the Legion had placed such expectations on here left her feeling strange. Should her fellow survivors discover these estranged ties, would they feel betrayed? Would they lose trust in her? _What if it’s a trap?_ That was something she considered since she was stabbed and left to think in the last trial. Though she wasn’t a cop, she honed on the police instincts she’d harnessed over the years of her profession. Within her mind she drew a mental map, with a single starting point that spiderwebbed into many countless outcomes. Morgan was persistent, but she wasn’t a genius. Soon, her mind turned brittle, and she was overwhelmed with the options set before her.

_Killers or not, they’re humans that want to escape._

Would they be so willing to work with her to get that outcome? Undoubtedly so, but Morgan contemplated if working behind the Entity’s back was even an option. What she feared most was acting out of desperation. Yes, she wanted to much to go back home and to kill the thing that was responsible for so much turmoil. Yet she equally had to remain rational. The thought made her chuckle. “Rational… right,” she murmured sarcastically to herself. She stood at the outskirts of the forest line; her arms crossed over her chest as she shivered from the mean icy chill that seeped through her knitted sweater. The group was not as boisterous as usual, though they exchanged words too difficult for her to pick up at that distance with genuine smiles on their faces. The sight managed to ease the tension in her shoulders by just a smidgen.

She almost died after that trial. Whether actually, or metaphorically, she wasn’t sure. But she was certain that had she given up she would have ended up there.

In the Void.

Reality draped over her like shackles around her throat. She felt she was extremely driven for escape, and yet she was so close to breaking. If it weren’t for her catching herself, she would have never returned there to them. What then would happen? Would they keep at the strange plan in desperation, or would they give up? More than likely there would be a split. Morgan read in Baker’s stories of survivors that went mad—so far gone that others had to end their lives. Even now, as she observed the small group enjoying one another’s company despite their differences, Morgan knew that such a thing could still happen should they falter. It would have only been a matter of time.

Too much was in her hands, yet not enough information to act. Joey’s words tainted her thoughts, and as her grip quaked against her forearms, she feared that she would only let everyone down. There, Morgan wondered if she was actually capable of carrying her plot out for much longer.

_My Morgan wouldn’t give up._

Her teeth gritted harshly. When all else failed, including her own self, her mind unintentionally wandered to him. She thought of him then, like she did now. It was an act of desperation, and subconsciously she reached out for him. For the last thing on the list that the Entity attempted drawing from her memories. He was there, equally stubborn in her imagination as he was in reality. If the Ghostface ever discovered that he was the source of her recovery— _twice_ —he would never let it go. Hell, he’d likely use it to torture her all the more. The sheer thought had her arms shaking over her chest.

“I hate him,” she whispered into the cold, empty air. To no one but herself. “I hate him… I hate him so much.”

She kept telling herself that, as unhealthy as it was.

Too much work to be done, and she wasn’t sure of the time allotted to her. For now, she’d keep the dire things to herself. The others needn’t know, and unless she needed to consult with either Adam or Nancy, it should stay like that. Morgan settled for taking the opportunity by its reigns. The Legion gave her a lead. If it weren’t for witnessing such moments of humanity from various killers, then she would have never even considered trusting them. The next time she saw Adam, she’d make sure to get Baker’s journal from him. Even now, she couldn’t quite recall ever reading about a flower. Chances were, she skimmed over the details. There was an abundance of strange plants she’d never set her eyes on, some of which Claudette with all of her botany knowledge wasn’t familiar with. As for the Trapper, she’d worry about that when the time came. The killer never spoke, and from what she gathered, the Entity had total control over him. She knew from the way the deep, blood red possessed his irises. Again, her brain began to ache, and Morgan reached up to grip her locks tightly.

Her camera dangled by her side. Scrolling through the pictures, she’d come to realize that she never took a photo of the newcomers. Ash’s words echoed in her mind just as the sound of music started drifting from the campfire. Having survivors warry of one another was a practical death sentence in Morgan’s eyes.

“Gonna have to figure out what their deal is too…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but mostly to help me pave out the next few chapters. I gotta say, the latest updates have been interesting, but I was totally surprised at what they've been doing with the lore. I'm not sure how to feel about it, but it's definitely something that I don't think I'm going to be digging too far into in his fanfiction (in terms of the Terra worlds and such). As lore compliant as I like to be, I don't want to lose the original spirit of this work!
> 
> Besides, we can't go kicking Danny from the spotlight for too long V.V he would be most disappointed wouldn't you agree?
> 
> QOTC: Don't you miss these??? I guess my question is... how are you all feeling about the map reworks?! I think they're both cool but also... disappointing? I feel like the textures aren't unique between realms anymore (were they even ever? Idk haha.) Knowing now that they're reworking Ormond and Autohaven, I hope they keep those maps unique, especially Ormond! Kind of worried about thoe strong loops on there, but I'll still play the game either way haha.


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